


The Sword of Kaigen: A Theonite War Story

by MLWang



Category: Original Work, Theonite Series - M. L. Wang
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Child Death, Elemental Magic, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Japanese Culture, Magical War, Martial Arts, Novella, Original Fiction, Samurai, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Soldiers, Supernatural Elements, Superpowered Warfare, Superpowers, Swordplay, Swords, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MLWang/pseuds/MLWang
Summary: "The invincible sword is not made of ice or steel, my son. It is us; our pride, our skill, and our spirit. We are the Sword of Kaigen. As long as we keep our edge, the Empire will endure."High on a mountainside at the edge of the world, live the most powerful fighters in the world, warriors capable of raising the sea and wielding blades of ice. For hundreds of years, the fighters of the Kusanagi Peninsula have held the Empire’s enemies at bay, earning their snowy spit of land the name ‘The Sword of Kaigen.' But when the winds of war return, will the men of Kusanagi be enough to hold them back? And if they are Kaigen’s sword, whose fingers hold the hilt?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Mt. Takayubi, Kusanagi Peninsula  
Shirojima Prefecture  
The Kaigenese Empire  
Planet Duna  
5369 y. s. p.

 

**MAMORU**

 

It was a taxing climb to the high school. 821 steps. Mamoru had counted one time on his way up—no easy feat while you were focusing on not toppling off the side of a mountain. For most fourteen-year-old jijakalu, the winding way up to the school was a true test of nerve, agility, and spirit. But Mamoru, with his springy legs and boundless energy, woke each morning looking forward to the challenge.

“Mamoru!” his friends panted from the steps far below him. “Not so fast!”

Keichi and Yuuta had to take the steep path to the school because they lived in the western village, further down the mountain. Mamoru's family compound was built high enough that he could have taken an easier way if he chose, but Matsudas weren't known for taking the easy way to anything. He rose every day before dawn, amid the chanting of crickets, so he could make the loop down the mountain toward the western village and take the steep path with his friends.

“You two are too slow!” Mamoru called back. “We don’t want to be late!”

“We’re not going to be late,” Keichi called in exasperation from the mist below. “Just wait up! Please!”

“Fine, fine.” Mamoru lowered himself to the rock ledge and sat, letting his feet hang over the edge. It had still been dark when the three boys began their climb, but by now morning had seeped through the veil of fog to touch the rock face with its pale brushstrokes of light. It was impossible to see the base of the mountain from Kumono's steps—or, in fact, from anywhere in the village. Beneath Mamoru’s dangling legs, there was only mist, rolling in slow waves against the cliff side, brightening with the sunrise.

The moment Keichi and Yuuta dragged themselves over the ridge where Mamoru was perched, he sprang to his feet.

“Oh good!” he said brightly. “Are you two ready to keep up now?”

“Seriously?” Yuuta gasped, doubling over to catch his breath.

“You’re a monster!” Keichi groaned.

Mamoru slapped each of them on the back. “I’ll wait for you at the school,” he said cheerfully, and took off up the mountain. His toes knew each ledge, each jutting rock, and he took the steepest part of the path in swift, confident bounds, skipping four steps at a time. He had just rounded the last curve when his feet slowed. There was a figure hunched over, panting in the fog up ahead.

Mamoru wouldn’t have thought much of it—there were dozens of students who climbed these steps each morning—but this boy’s clothing wasn’t right. Instead of Kumono blue, he wore a modern-looking black uniform Mamoru had never seen before.

“Good morning,” Mamoru said, approaching slowly, so as not to startle the newcomer off the edge.

“Morning.” The boy raised a hand in greeting before putting it to his chest, still breathing hard. He had an accent.

“Are you...” Mamoru started and then switched to Capital Kaigenese, in case the boy didn’t understand dialect. “ _Are you a transfer student_?”

The boy nodded. “ _I’m Kwang Chul-hee. Nice to meet you_.”

A northern name. This boy hadn’t just transferred from a neighboring prefecture; he had come from a long way away. His uniform was the kind worn in the big modern cities on the Jungsan Peninsula, with its Yammanka-style cut and military bogolan patterns.

“Matsuda Mamoru,” Mamoru introduced himself, bowing.

“Matsuda Mamoru...” the boy repeated. “ _How much farther is it to your damn school_?”

“ _You’re almost there_ ,” Mamoru said with a laugh. “ _I can walk with you the rest of the way_.”

“ _I’m not afraid I’ll get lost_ ,” Kwang looked vaguely exasperated. “ _I’m afraid I’ll fall off the edge_.”

“ _No one’s ever died falling from the steps_ ,” Mamoru said. Below the mist, there was a spring-fed lake that never froze waiting to catch those clumsy students who lost their footing on the steep way up.

“ _That’s what I heard_ ,” Kwang said, “ _but I bet it still hurts_.”

“ _It does_.”

One time, his first year, Mamoru had jumped off the steps deliberately to see what it felt like to fly. He had regretted deeply when he hit the surface tension of the lake, but he would never forget the feeling of flying.

“ _But don’t worry_ ,” Mamoru reassured the new boy. “ _I’ve climbed these steps a hundred times. I know where the rough places are, so if you miss a step, I’ll catch you_.”

“ _You’re that fast_?” Kwang didn’t look convinced. Mamoru didn’t mind. Let him think what he wanted.

“ _Speed is valued in this village_ ,” Mamoru said by way of explanation. “ _We’re all swordsmen here_.”

“ _I see that_.” Kwang nodded at the wooden practice sword sticking out of Mamoru’s schoolbag.

“ _We can fight empty-handed too,_ ” Mamoru assured him, “ _but traditional swordplay is the preferred fighting style_.”

“ _Are you any good at it_?”

“ _I’m a Matsuda_.”

“ _I don’t know what that means_.”

“ _It means ‘yes,_ ’” Mamoru said. “ _And what fighting style is popular in your region_?” he asked, curious about what kind of warrior this boy was.

“ _What fighting style_?” Kwang raised his eyebrows. “ _Video games_.”                

Mamoru laughed. “ _We don’t play many of those here_.”

“ _Why not? You_ do _have info-com devices here, don’t you_?”

“ _My parents have one_.” They had gotten the device last year, so that Mamoru’s mother could communicate more easily with her old friends overseas and his father could stay up-to-date on Kaigenese news. “ _But info-com devices aren’t common up here. We’re a pretty traditional village._ ”

“ _Yeah, I noticed_.”

Keichi and Yuuta caught up to the pair on the last stretch of stairs, and the western village boys introduced themselves.

“I’m Mizumaki Keichi,” Keichi said, unthinkingly using the Shirojima dialect the boys all spoke with each other. “This is Yukino Yuuta.”

“Oh. I-I’m Kwang Chul-hee,” Kwang said in a valiant attempt at a Shirojima dialect greeting. “Yoroshiku onegashimasu.”

“ _You mean_  ‘o-ne-ga- _i_ ’,” Mamoru corrected him gently. “Onega _i_ shimasu.  _And you don’t really say the_  ‘su’  _part unless you’re a little kid_.”

“ _Oh_.”

“ _Don’t worry_ ,” Mamoru said. “ _Most of the classes are taught in Capital Kaigenese_.” That was standard across the Empire.

By the time they reached the school, the city boy was out of breath again. The pillars loomed first out of the mist, then the curving tile roof, black finish slick with condensation. Kumono Academy was built into the rock face, its inner structures carved right out of the inside of the mountain. The intricate wood and lacquer front of the building was supported by a network of pillars and beams that creaked threateningly in high winds, but had held the structure in place for a hundred years.

Kwang paused at the front steps, clinging to a carved wooden railing for support, looking rather like he might empty his stomach into the mists below.

“ _Why would you build a school in a place like this_?” he said miserably.

“ _Kumono wasn’t built to be a school_ ,” Yuuta said. “ _It used to be a monastery_.”

“ _Oh. That explains the decoration_ ,” Kwang said, nodding at the statues of Falleya saints standing guard at the school doors.

“ _The place was left vacant after the fina monks built that new temple, further down the mountain, by the western village_ ,” Yuuta said.

“ _And they decided it was a good place for a school_?” Kwang said, incredulous.

“ _Well, Kumono is our elite koro school_ ,” Mamoru explained as the boys walked up the front steps into the entry way. “ _The village officials thought it would be appropriate if you had to be an elite koro to reach it. If you want an easier walk, you could always transfer to the Takayubi High School_.”

“ _Oh, no,”_ Kwang laughed, sliding off his shoes and stowing them in an empty slot _. “My father won’t have me in any school but the best in the region whenever we move to a new place_.”

“ _You move a lot_?” Yuuta asked.

Kwang nodded. “ _My father’s a businessman, so we travel all over the country, sometimes outside it_.”

“ _Outside it_?” Keichi said in astonishment. “ _Where have you been_?”

“ _Um_...” Kwang took a moment to think. “ _I’ve been to Yamma a few times, Kudazwe a few times, Sizwe once, for a few weeks_ —”

“Boys,” a voice said, “if your shoes are put away, you should be in your classrooms.”

“Yukino Sensei!” Keichi exclaimed as he and the other boys bowed. “We’re sorry.”

Yukino Dai was the third best swordsman in the prefecture, right behind Mamoru’s father, Matsuda Takeru, and his uncle, Matsuda Takashi. The Yukino clan had none of the Matsudas’ secret bloodline techniques, but Yukino Dai was about as good as a man could get with a naked blade.

“We have a new student with us,” Mamoru explained. “He isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go.”

“I see.” Yukino Sensei looked past Mamoru at the new boy, who stuck out starkly in his bogolan uniform. “You must be Kwang Chul-hee?”

“Yes, sir.” Kwang bowed and said very carefully, “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

The sword master visibly restrained a smile at Kwang’s pronunciation. “ _Welcome to Kumono Academy_ ,” he said in Capital dialect. “ _How was your first time up the steps?_ ”

“ _Super easy, sir_ ,” Kwang said, despite the obvious flush in his cheeks. “ _I can’t wait to do it again._ ”

Yukino Sensei’s face broke into an open smile. “ _I like you, Kwang_ ,” he said. “ _You can follow me to the office to pick up your schedule_. Matsuda-san.” He turned to Mamoru. “Run to the storeroom and find a uniform for Kwang-san. Your size should do.”

“Yes sir.” Mamoru bowed and hurried to do as he was told.

He strode quickly through the narrows halls to the supply closet, his feet and knees moving with the floor as the school swayed on its posts.

“Hey, Mamoru!” other boys greeted him. “Good morning, Matsuda-senpai!”

He made sure he gave each of them a bow and a smile as he went.

There was no lock on the storeroom door. Kumono was a small enough high school—Takayubi was a small enough  _town_ —that no one worried much about theft. Where would a man even keep a stolen item? Where would he try to sell it? Everyone here knew everyone.

Mamoru had to climb over a box of broken practice swords and a stack of dummies, to reach the shelf of spare uniforms. It was difficult for him to keep his footing as the school creaked and the dummies shifted beneath him, but what kind of Matsuda would he be if a little breeze threw him off balance? With the next gust of wind, the stack of dummies tipped toward the shelves. Mamoru leaned forward, snatched a size four uniform from its shelf, and sprang from the top of the stack to the floor before anything fell.

After double checking the uniform size, he hurried to the office to meet Yukino Sensei and Kwang.

“So,” Yukino Sensei said as Mamoru handed the new boy his uniform, “Kwang-san is going to be entering our second year class, which means his schedule is identical to yours.”

Mamoru nodded. Being the more exclusive of two high schools in a small town, Kumono Academy only had one class per grade level.

“You’ll look after him for today, Matsuda-san.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Start by showing him where the changing rooms are. And be quick. You boys only have a few siiranu before classes start.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

Kwang took longer than Mamoru would have thought to change into his new uniform, and Mamoru found himself pacing impatiently on the creaking floor before the changing room door. When, Kwang finally emerged, he was still fiddling with the waist tie as if he had all the time in the world.

“This is so funny,” he said, shaking out the uniform’s broad blue sleeves. “I feel like I’m in one of those old samurai movies.”

“Well, for us, this is just a normal school uniform,” Mamoru said, frowning.

“This place is weird.” Kwang ran his hands over his sleeves, looking at the ornately-carved temple halls around him. “It’s like I stepped into a portal back in time.”

Mamoru felt annoyance bristle up inside him. He wasn’t sure why. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could come up with the right words, the old temple bell sounded. The single ancient note reverberated through the hall, calling the boys to class.

 

 

**MISAKI**

 

“Healthy, just like his brothers?” Hyori asked, leaning in to put a hand on the infant’s head.

“Yes,” Misaki said, “if a little smaller.”

“I can’t believe this one is your  _fourth_!”

“Yes,” Misaki sighed, trying to make her tone light, despite the heaviness in her limbs, “hopefully the last.”

“No!” Hyori exclaimed, scandalized. “How can you say that?”

“Yes, Misaki, you’re doing so well, why stop now?” Setsuko joked, shifting her own baby to her other hip to nudge her sister-in-law.

“Seriously, Misaki-san!” Hyori said with an ache in her voice. “You’re  _so lucky_!”

“Mmm.” Misaki nodded, forcing a smile. “I suppose I am.”

And Misaki  _was_  lucky. By sensible standards, she was the luckiest woman in the world. Fresh out of theonite academy, she had been lucky enough to marry into Shirojima’s greatest warrior family. And following that, she had been blessed with son, after son, after son. There had been a rough space of years, after Mamoru, that Misaki hadn’t been able to have any more children. Then, five years ago, she had borne Hiroshi, then soon after him, Nagasa, and now, Izumo. Four healthy boys, every Kaigenese woman’s dream. She was a lucky woman.

“May I?” Hyori asked, an eager sparkle in her eyes.

“Of course.” Careful to support the infant’s unsteady head, Misaki handed Izumo to her friend.

“You’re looking much better,” Setsuko commented as Hyori gushed and cooed over an oblivious Izumo.

“I  _feel_  much better,” Misaki said, rolling her shoulders, “at least now that you’re here. I missed you two.”

Normally, the three housewives spent the majority of their waking hours together, letting their little ones play together, passing around the babies, as they did their shopping, cooking, and sewing. Since giving birth to Izumo, Misaki had been too exhausted to do much except look after the infant, and Takeru had insisted that she wasn’t well enough for company.

This was the first time Izumo was meeting Hyori and his aunt, Setsuko. He was a fussy baby, but he didn’t seem bothered by the new faces—if he could even make out facial features. He was still so young that his eyes hadn’t found their focus yet.

“Four sons,” Setsuko mused, burping her own daughter, Ayumi. “I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to catch up to that. “Although, look at these chunky little arms! Ayumi could  _almost_  pass for a boy. Perhaps I’ll start dressing her in boy clothes and just pretend I’ve given my husband a healthy son.” Baby Ayumi, despite being only two months Izumo’s senior was nearly twice his size. “What do you ladies think?”

“I think she’s perfect the way she is.” Misaki was being honest, but of course the other two women laughed.

When she was younger, Misaki had always pictured herself having daughters. She had enjoyed the vague fantasy of raising powerful, forward-thinking young women with the courage to amount to more than their mother, but it was just that: a fantasy. Misaki had long since let go of the idea that she could raise her children the way she wanted—or that they were even  _her_  children at all. Her sons were Matsudas first and foremost. Their sole purpose was to grow to be powerful warriors, like their father before them, and his father before him. They belonged to the Matsuda house, as she did.

“I’m being serious,” Misaki insisted as Hyori passed Izumo back to her. “I would be happy to have a daughter.” With a daughter, at least, she might be allowed to pass some of herself on to her own child.

“Easy for you to say when you’re on your fourth son!” Hyori said indignantly.

“Yes, Misaki,” Setsuko agreed, “you’re going to have to tell us how you pulled it off.”

“ _I_ want to know how she pulled it off and kept her figure!” Hyori exclaimed.

“Oh, you shut up!” Setsuko swatted Hyori on the back of the head. “The prettiest little slip of a woman in the village doesn’t get to say things like that!”

“Setsuko-san,” Hyori said, blushing furiously. “I’m not the prettiest—”

“Shut your pretty mouth, Hyori-chan,” Misaki said fondly. “You don’t need to be modest with us. We like you better when you’re smart.”

Hyori was rarely smart, but Misaki thought she might as well keep encouraging her. Popular wisdom said that a woman as pretty as Hyori didn’t need to be smart. Although pretty wasn’t exactly the right word for Hyori; she was achingly beautiful, with an artless smile and eyes as soft as melting snow. She was the kind of legendary beauty men went to war for.

“Couple of pure-bred princesses, both of you!” Setsuko said, looking from Hyori to Misaki. “With your smooth skin, and your teensy little waists. Don’t you sit there and complain about your weight to me when I could fit the two of you inside me.”

Ironically, it was Setsuko who Misaki considered to be the most beautiful woman on the mountain. When Setsuko had married into the Matsuda family, she had brought with her all the crude shameless joy Misaki missed so much from her life before Takayubi. Her beauty had little to do with her physical attributes. It wasn’t the short hair cropped about her ears; it was the way she shook it out and sighed in pleasure when she was enjoying the weather. It wasn’t her big eyes with their dark lashes; it was the way they crinkled up with mirth at the smallest things. It wasn’t her bulky frame; it was the way she threw it around with careless confidence in a world where everyone, ladies and swordsmen alike, stepped so lightly.

Before they were sisters-in-law, Misaki had known Setsuko—as everyone had known her—as the fresh fish lady. Her voice could be heard on any trip to the markets at the base of the mountain. “Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!”

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but Setsuko was the kind of person who could be at her most charming elbows deep in fish guts, with loose strands of hair sticking to the sweat on her temples. Misaki had to imagine that many people had fallen in love with the stocky fisherwoman’s carefree grin. But it was Matsuda Takashi, the golden first son of the highest house in the region, who fell the hardest.

Misaki had first suspected the morning her brother-in-law stopped her on her way out the door and said, “You look tired, Misaki. I can go to the market for you.”

For a moment, Misaki had only managed to blink up at him. “ _You_  want to go to the market?” she said blankly. Shopping for meals wasn’t something a man was supposed to do—certainly not a nobleman like Takashi.

“I—um—I have business to attend to at the base of the mountain anyway.” Takashi didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m feeling fine, Nii-sama,” Misaki assured him. “If you have important business, you shouldn’t trouble yourself—”

“It’s no trouble,” Takashi said and Misaki realized that he was speaking in a low voice, to assure that his father and brother wouldn’t hear from inside the house. “Just give me a list of what you need.”

“Alright.” Confused as she was, Misaki wasn’t going to argue with someone who wanted to do tedious work for her.

“And Misaki?”

“Yes, Nii-sama?”

“If you could maybe... not mention this to my father?”

Misaki’s suspicions were confirmed when Takashi returned late that evening and deposited four bulging baskets of fish in her kitchen. No man but a Matsuda could have carried such a load all the way up the mountain. The effort had lent his face a bright flush.

“Fish,” he said with a drunk smile that ill-became the son of a warrior family. “You said you wanted fresh fish right? I’m sorry. I might have missed the other things on your list.”

“Um...” Misaki looked in horror at the heaping baskets on her kitchen floor. “I’m sorry, Nii-sama, what do you want me to do with all this?” The Matsuda compound didn’t have freezer space to store this many fish. “Are you expecting company?”

“What? No. Why? Is this too much?”

Misaki looked up at her brother-in-law, incredulous and a little annoyed. She wanted to snap at him:  _If you like the girl, just tell her straight. Don’t blow the family fortune on fish!_ But it wasn’t her place to question him, and it wasn’t that simple. A nobleman couldn’t just propose to a fisherman’s daughter and whisk her away up the mountain. Not in Takayubi. Peasants with no bloodlines to protect might marry whoever they liked, but men and women of noble houses didn’t have that luxury.

“Is it too much?” Takashi asked again, still dazed and so much giddier than usual, like a love-struck teenager—like Misaki had been once. The thought pierced her chest, deep enough to strike at an old wound.

 _Be careful, big brother,_  she wanted to say then,  _be careful how hard you love something you know you can’t have_. But that also was not her place.

So instead, she pursed her lips, looked down at the fish and said, “I’ll think of something.”

“Good,” Takashi said, though he didn’t really seem to see or hear her. “Good,” and he wandered out of the kitchen, still smiling. On his way out, he passed Takeru, who regarded his older brother with the same sour expression he took on whenever he saw someone happy.

“Is my brother ill?” he asked when Takashi had gone.

 _No_ , Misaki thought sadly,  _just doomed to misery._

But Takashi had been lucky—or rather, just the right combination of lucky, determined, and clever. He had struggled, and schemed, and spun excuses, and somehow managed to hold off marriage until his tyrannical father had passed away and there were no Matsuda elders left to tell him what to do. Then, instead of marrying a pure-blooded noblewoman his family chose for him, Takashi married the woman he loved—the peasant with the loud laugh who sold him his fresh fish.

Takashi didn’t know it, but in marrying Setsuko, he might have saved his sister-in-law’s life. The fisherman’s daughter had moved into the Matsuda compound shortly after Misaki’s second miscarriage, a loud burst of color when everything seemed gray.

“You haven’t smiled the whole time I’ve been here,” Setsuko had observed as Misaki helped her unpack the few belongings she had brought with her. “Why so glum, little sister?”

Misaki was two years older than her new sister-in-law, but Setsuko had married the older of the two Matsuda brothers, and in this world, the man’s status was the only thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” Misaki murmured. It had become her default response to anything over the past few years.

Setsuko planted her hands on her hips. “That’s not good enough.”

“What?”

“Look, you and I are going to be here in this house together until we’re both wrinkly old hags with all our teeth falling out. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend the next forty years with a woman who doesn’t know how to smile.”

“I know how to smile.” There had been a time Misaki had been accused of smiling too much. But over the years, Takayubi had worn away at her, turning into this quivering, brittle thing, afraid the sound of her own voice might shake her to pieces if she spoke too loud.

“ _I’ve_  never seen you smile,” Setsuko said.

“I miscarried,” Misaki said bluntly, “twice.”

“Oh, Misaki...” Setsuko stilled, looking sad—sadder than anyone else had bothered looking on Misaki’s behalf in a long time. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

Misaki thought she might crumble under the concern in Setsuko’s eyes. She felt stripped bare. The years had hardened her against her father-in-law’s cruelty and her husband’s indifference, but she had no armor against an honest gaze.

“You really wanted those children?” Setsuko asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Misaki said, stunned—and slightly horrified—at her own honesty. “My husband wanted them.” She waited, her shoulders tense, for Setsuko to berate her for her selfishness, to blame her for losing the children, to tell her she was lucky to have such a tolerant husband, like everyone else did.

Setsuko only said, “Oh. Then why are you so sad?”

“I...” When, Misaki wondered, had her voice gotten so small? When had she become afraid to put a single thought into words? “I’m here to give my husband sons. I don’t want to be a disappointment.”

“You’re not a disappointment,” Setsuko said confidently.

“What?”

“I said, you’re not a disappointment. You couldn’t be if you tried.” It had been a long time since someone had spoken about Misaki with that sort of simple confidence—taking for granted that she was right and good.

Misaki stared at Setsuko for a moment and realized that she had forgotten how to respond to this type of kindness. It was something she thought she had left behind nine years ago.

“Look at you,” Setsuko continued earnestly. “What could a man possibly complain about? You’re sweet, you’re  _beautiful_ , I get the feeling you’re pretty smart too, you’ve already borne a perfect son, and my husband tells me your cooking is to die for. You like cooking?”

Misaki nodded.

“Well that’s good, because I’m a lousy cook.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Misaki said politely.

“Oh, it is. Ask anyone who’s ever eaten one of my meals. Now, why don’t you make yourself useful, and teach me to cook something for my fancy husband and his refined Matsuda palate.”

“Matsuda palates aren’t that refined,” Misaki said. “Your husband likes the same food everyone else does.”

“Not when I make it, he won’t. Why do you think I was always the one hauling the fish to market instead of staying home to help in the kitchen? My family tried my cooking exactly once and then decided they’d rather live.”

And for the first time in a long time, Misaki giggled.

“There’s her smile!” Setsuko exclaimed, triumphant. “And look that!” She poked a finger at Misaki’s cheek.

“What?” Misaki put her hand to her face, thinking maybe there was a piece of rice stuck to it.

“You have dimples!”

Misaki had never had any siblings, but from that day, she decided that she was glad to call Setsuko her sister. Their husbands carried with them all the tension that accompanied growing up as brothers, a first and second son competing for their parents’ approval. But the sisters-in-law had never let any of that bad nyama in between them.

After Misaki had lived in the Matsuda compound almost a decade, it was Setsuko who made it feel like a home. When she was in pain, it was Setsuko who went to the western village to buy her remedies. When she got lost in the darkness of her own thoughts, it was Setsuko who brought her back with a joke. A few months after Hiroshi was born, it was Setsuko who said, “That pretty little thing who lives in the Yukino compound. Who is she?”

“You mean Hyori?” Misaki said. “She’s Yukino Dai’s wife.”

“Yukino who? I thought the Yukino patriarch was Yukino Ryosuke.”

“It is—it  _was_. He passed away a few months before you moved here. Didn’t you know?”

“No!” Setsuko exclaimed. “Nami, I haven’t been in on the market gossip! That’s where I get all my news.”

“Yukino Ryosuke’s funeral was just before your wedding. Someone had to assume control of the estate, and the Yukinos’ oldest son didn’t want to move his family all the way back from Jungsan. Dai-san is the second son, so he moved in with his wife.”

“Does he keep his wife cloistered?” Setsuko asked. “How come we never see her?”

“I think she spends most of her time caring for Dai-san’s mother. She’s old and very ill, so I imagine it takes up most of Hyori’s time.”

“That must get lonely,” Setsuko said. “We should go visit tomorrow.”

That was how the sisters-in-law had met Hyori. Now, five years later, the three women had become inseparable.

Hyori and Setsuko were still teasing one another about their waistlines when there was a tug at Misaki’s sleeve. She looked down to find her third son, two-year-old Nagasa, clutching her kimono.

“See?” he asked in his tiny voice. “See baby?” It was his favorite question since Izumo had arrived.

“Of course,” Misaki said, kneeling down on the tatami to put Izumo on her knee before Nagasa. “Remember to be gentle, Naga-kun. He’s still very small.”

“Hold baby?” Nagasa asked hopefully, holding out his arms.

“Oh, isn’t he the cutest thing!” Hyori squealed.

“I think I’m going to hold him for now,” Misaki told Nagasa gently. “You concentrate on growing a little bigger and we’ll talk.”

“Isn’t your older brother around?” Hyori asked, kneeling so that she was at eye-level with the two-year-old. “Why don’t you go play with him?”

“Hiro-nii-san gone,” Nagasa pouted.

“Oh? Where did he go?” Hyori asked, looking at Misaki.

“Hiro-kun is at the elementary school dojo,” Misaki said, gently jouncing Izumo on her knees.

“That’s right,” Hyori said. “He likes to watch the older boys train, doesn’t he?”

“He’s actually training  _with_  them now,” Misaki said, “started as soon as he was big enough to lift the practice sword.”

“Isn’t he only five?” Hyori said in astonishment.

“The instructors made an exception,” Misaki said. No five-year-old had ever been admitted to the elementary school’s beginner sword class, but Misaki’s second son, Hiroshi, was not like other five-year-olds.

“He’s a serious little boy, isn’t he?” Setsuko said. “Like a miniature version of his father. It’s a little scary.”

“How come you can’t be like that, hmm, Ryo-kun?” Hyori poked her own son, Ryota. She said it in a joking voice, but there was a distinct undercurrent of seriousness.

“Well, he’s still very young,” Misaki said. “Ryota-kun, how old are you?”

“Four,” Ryota said proudly.

“There, you see,” Misaki said. “You may be a little swordsman like Hiroshi by next year. Who knows?”

“I’m already a swordsman!” Ryota announced, brandishing his toy sword. “I’m the greatest swordsman in the world!”

“Is that so?” Misaki couldn’t help but tease.

“I challenge you to a duel!” Ryota shouted, seemingly to no one in particular, probably quoting a cartoon he had seen. “I challenge you to a duel!”

On a whim, Misaki pooled her jiya, pulled the surrounding water molecules together and froze them into a makeshift sword—well, more of a blunt icicle than a sword, the perfect size for combat with a four-year-old.

“I accept!” she exclaimed.

“Misaki-san, what are you doing?” Hyori said, seemingly unsure whether to be amused or alarmed.

“Fight me, Yukino Ryota!” Misaki intoned in her best cartoon villain voice, shifting Izumo over to her left hip where he was out of danger.

“Ryo-kun, don’t,” Hyori warned. “Misaki-san is a lady—” but the boy, overcome with joy at having a playmate, was already wailing away at Misaki with his wooden sword.

Misaki’s arm moved on an almost forgotten impulse. In two moves, she had disarmed little Ryota. With another flick of her makeshift play-sword, she had swept the boy off his feet. He landed on his back with a hard ‘oof!’ and Misaki pointed the blunt icicle down at his chest.

“I am victorious!” she said dramatically. “Admit defeat or I shall tickle you!”

“Oh no!” Ryota shrieked, and scrambled away, giggling. “No, no!”

And Misaki couldn’t help it. She hiked up her kimono and ran after him. The quick little boy probably hadn’t expected a refined housewife like Misaki to catch up to him in three strides. He screamed when she caught him around the middle with one arm, and laughed, and laughed as she took him to the ground with tickles.

“Misaki-san, what are you doing?” Hyori cried, seemingly unsure whether to be scandalized or amused.

“Don’t worry, Hyori-chan,” Setsuko said. “This is something Misaki does every once in a while—when she’s in a happy mood.” What Setsuko didn’t understand was that this Misaki—this fearless, ridiculous woman who played with swords—was an echo from a time when Misaki’s whole life had been happy.

Having recovered from the tickle attack, a giggling Ryota picked up his sword and came at Misaki again. This time, she gave a little ground, letting the boy pick up on her rhythm and get a few good swings in, before she disarmed him again.

“I’m afraid Ryo-kun is a ways away from being like Hiro-kun,” Hyori laughed, “if he loses to a woman.”

Misaki could have mentioned that losing a fight against her was nothing for a young boy—or even a man—to be ashamed of, but that was a part of herself she didn’t talk about anymore. Takeru had forbidden it.

“Me too!” Nagasa squealed, getting his own play sword and bouncing up and down. “Kaa-chan, me too!”

“Boys, careful of the baby!” Hyori warned as Ryota and Nagasa charged Misaki at the same time.

But Misaki was more than capable of fending off two children with her right arm, while keeping her infant cradled comfortably in her left. It was only when the noise became too much for Izumo that he started crying and Misaki had to call off the duel.

“Sorry, boys,” she said, turning her makeshift sword to water vapor with a wave of her hand. “That’s all for today. I yield. Good fight, Yukino-dono.” She ruffled Ryota’s hair. “Matsuda-dono.” She chucked Nagasa under the chin. “We’ll have to duel again sometime.”

And she retreated to the couch to comfort Izumo before his wailing could rise to an unbearable pitch.

“Oh no!” Nagasa dropped his play sword and followed his mother to the couch with a look of genuine worry. “Baby crying!”

“He’s not upset with you, Naga-kun,” Misaki assured the two-year-old. “He’s just hungry.”

Tugging the front of her yukata open, Misaki maneuvered the bawling infant inside and gave him her breast. The wailing stopped almost immediately.

“You can’t be too scared of a little carnage,” Setsuko teased, prodding Izumo’s foot. “After all, you’re going to grow to be a great warrior. Just like your grumpy father.”

“Hey now, hey now, Setsuko,” Misaki said with a smile. “Don’t make fun of my grumpy husband. He works hard to keep that frown plastered on his face all day.”

“Mattaku!” Hyori exclaimed with an annoyed ‘tsk’ of her tongue. “Do you know how happy Dai would be if I could give him four good sons. I tell you, he would smile all day if he had a son like your Mamoru.”

“If it’s any consolation, Mamoru really likes Dai-san,” Misaki said.

“Oh yeah?” Hyori said, glowing.

“Yeah. Dai-san is his favorite instructor he’s ever had, for sword  _and_  jiya.”

That sent Hyori into a fit of giggles. “Misaki-san, don’t tease!”

“I’m not teasing,” Misaki said honestly.

“His father is Matsuda Takeru,” Hyori said, “the greatest swordsman on the mountain.”

“And a  _terrible_  teacher,” Misaki said. “The extent of his instruction is to cross his arms, and frown, and say, ‘Bad. Do it again. Still bad. Do it again. No. Listen. If you do it like that again, I’ll gut you, you disgrace. What do you mean you don’t understand? What’s to understand? Just do it  _right_.”

“Stop! Stop!” Setsuko begged, clutching her stomach with laughter. “Your Takeru impression is too good! I’m going to die!”

“How do you even get your voice that low?” Hyori laughed.

“What? You mean like this?” Misaki thundered. “Silly woman, you couldn’t possibly understand such matters. My manliness does not allow for human inflection.”

The trio plunged into another fit of giggles, and because their mothers were laughing, Ryota and Nagasa somehow ended up laughing as well.

Misaki had spent years trying to belong with these people. They weren’t like her friends from her school days. They weren’t scrappy visionaries like Elleen, or geniuses like Koli, or insatiable forces of energy like Robin. They would never change the world, nor understand why someone would want to. But they loved her; she could laugh with them, and that was enough.

There were days Misaki could convince herself that it was enough.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.

**MAMORU**

 

The training arena was a broad shelf of rock that the monks used to use for exercise and meditation. According to legend, the flattened half-moon had been hewn out of the mountainside by the Whispering Blades of Matsudas long dead, Mamoru’s ancestors.

“Perfect weather for today’s practice!” Yukino Sensei bellowed over the wind whipping across the arena. “Now we’ll have a true test of accuracy!”

Mamoru heard teeth chattering and turned to see Kwang with his arms pulled all the way into his uniform.

“Is it always so cold up here?” the new boy shivered.

Mamoru almost laughed. “Wait until the winter.”

Human-sized bundles of straw stood at intervals across arena, frozen to the rock by Yukino Sensei’s ice. Tied to each bundle was a coarse cloth sign with a number painted on it. Mamoru’s jiya was already itching to surge into action as Yukino Sensei raised his voice above the wind to explain the day’s lesson.

“For most of this week we’ve been working on forming aerodynamic ice projectiles. Now, you boys still have a great deal of work to do on that,” Yukino Sensei said, stopping in front of Mamoru to give him a pointed look, “especially those of you who hope to one day master a certain bloodline technique.” Mamoru gave his teacher a small, determined nod and Yukino Sensei turned to address the entire class. “Despite your sub-par forming work, I’m going to cut you all some slack so that we can train the next technique. Today, I’ve made your projectiles for you.” He gestured to a stack of perfectly-formed ice spears, each one three strides long, with a fine point, razor-blade fletching for straight flight, and a broad base to allow a strong launch.

“What bloodline technique was he talking about?” Kwang asked Mamoru as Yukino Sensei paced further down the line of boys. “What does your family do that’s so special?”

“You’re joking, right?” Keichi interjected with an incredulous look at Kwang. “Mamoru is a _Matsuda_.”

No understanding registered on Kwang’s face. “Yes?”

“The Matsudas are the masters of the Whispering Blade,” Keichi said. “You must have heard of the Whispering Blade in the capital.”

“Well—yes—but it’s just a myth, isn’t it?” Kwang laughed. But when the serious look on Keichi’s face didn’t change, Kwang’s smile faded and he turned to Mamoru with wide eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Mamoru shrugged. “Some myths are true.”

“But it’s not possible,” Kwang protested. “No jijaka can make ice strong enough to cut through steel!”

“Some can.”

“Are you one of them?” Kwang asked in awe.

Mamoru set his jaw. “I will be.”

Kwang considered Mamoru, his eyes squinted in thought. “I don’t believe you,” he said after a moment. “Even Kusanagi jijakalu can’t be that powerful.”

Instead of retorting, Mamoru just nodded toward Yukino Sensei and said, “Watch.”

The master jijaka had lifted one of the spears from the pile with a gentle gesture of his hand. His two fingers were enough to keep the projectile hovering perfectly still in the air before him as he spoke.

“The strongest tajakalu can throw a spear sixteen bounds,” Yukino Sensei bellowed, pointing with his free hand across the arena to the straw dummy painted with a number 16. “The best fonyakalu can use wind to launch a solid projectile twenty-five bounds.” He pointed beyond the first dummy to one farther away labeled 25. “With jiya, you can do much more.”

Placing a hand against the flattened end of the projectile, Yukino Sensei planted his feet, and launched the ice forward. Mamoru had seen Lightning Dai’s jiya in action enough times that it no longer set his heart leaping into his throat. But beside him, he heard Kwang utter a gasp.

The spear blasted through the 16-bound dummy, through the 25-bound dummy, all the way at the end of the arena where it stuck into a third dummy marked with a barely discernable number 40.

“Holy Falleke!” Kwang breathed, staring with wide eyes at the destroyed 16-bound bundle.

“Tajakalu may be able to use their strength to throw a projectile,” Yukino Sensei said, turning back to his class. “Fonyakalu may be able to use their nyama to push against one. Our nyama is  _in_  the projectile. When a weapon is made of ice, we can control it down to the molecule. A jijaka is the only kind of theonite who can fight with a solid weapon that is truly an extension of himself.”

Yukino Sensei gave each student a stack of projectiles and had them line up across the arena to practice firing at the army of straw targets.

Using his jiya to lift a spear, Mamoru laid his palm against the flat end and let his power rise. The ocean may not have been visible from Takayubi, but when Mamoru’s jiya pooled in his chest, it seemed to reach all the way down the mountain, to the waves that crashed at its base, and deeper than that, into the boundless depths where the islands jutted from the seafloor.

There were finawu who claimed that the Kaigenese were descended from the ocean gods who dwelt in the Sea of Kaigen at the dawn of time. Like most modern Kaigenese, Mamoru accepted this part of their tradition as more metaphor than fact. Logically, there was no way human beings could be descended from titanic fish and sea dragons. But like many Matsudas before him, Mamoru experienced moments of madness, when the feeling of his jiya consumed him. In those moments, he could almost believe that the power rolling through his body was born from the ancient forces that had raised Kaigen from the sea.

The power rose, thunderous, like a wave from inside Mamoru, and he rode the swell, moving his body with it. As the wave broke, he let its force burst down his arm, through his open palm, into the ice.

 The projectile exploded through the air, shooting farther than anyone else’s, but it didn’t fly straight. It glanced off the stone shelf, breaking its fletching blades, and skidded to a stop off to the side of the 25-bound target. Mamoru frowned and shook out his hands. He was just getting warmed up. With his full power, he would launch the spear so hard that it had no choice but to go straight to the target.

Letting a new wave of nyama surge through him, Mamoru launched again. This spear managed to clip the 25-bound target, but it wasn’t a clean hit, and the ice broke apart instead of penetrating.

“Stop pushing so hard, Matsuda-san,” Yukino Sensei said patiently. “You have more than enough power to send a projectile clear across this arena. Relax your shoulders and make sure your aim is true.”

“Yes, Sensei,” Mamoru breathed and raised another projectile.

“Slow down.” Yukino Sensei reached out and laid his fingertips on the ice, stilling it before Mamoru raised it level with the target. “Your jiya is too excited; I can feel it roaring every which way. Take a moment to calm it. Focus your energy. Then try again.”

And Yukino Sensei moved down the line to observe the other boys, giving them each a few well-placed pieces of advice. Mamoru’s mother had once said of Yukino Dai that he dealt his words as carefully as he dealt his cuts. It was what made him such a good teacher.

“Don’t over-rotate,” Sensei scolded his younger cousin, Yuuta, giving the boy a hard rap on the head with his knuckles. “If you swing through, your projectile will crash into the ground short of its target every time.”

“Yes, Sensei.” Yuuta nodded and tried again, this time managing to send his spear neatly into the 16-bound target.

Satisfied, Yukino Sensei turned his attention from Yuuta to Kwang, just as the northern newcomer sent his third spear spinning off course to crash into pieces on the rock shelf.

“Hmm.” Yukino Sensei frowned at the new student, and Kwang cringed, clearly expecting to be mocked. But all Yukino Sensei said was, “I bet you’re very good at the spear-throw.”

“Yes,” Kwang said in surprise. “How did you—”

“Stop trying to throw with your shoulder. Project from the hip, straight out through your palm, like you’re punching a man in the solar plexus.”

“Sensei,” Keichi complained from further down the line, “the wind keeps pushing it off course!”

“That means your power is lacking. These projectiles are made to cut through the wind. Again. I want to see.”

He paused to watch Keichi attempt a launch, sending the spear wide.

“Your launch is weak.” Yukino Sensei put his hands on Keichi’s shoulders and maneuvered him back into his starting position. “Angle your stance this way. Bend your knees. A little bit more. There.”

Having given his jiya time to settle, Mamoru returned his attention to his own task. As usual, Yukino Sensei was right. Mamoru’s aim got much better after he relaxed. But even with his projectiles flying straight, he still couldn’t seem to get one past the 25-bound target.

“What are you scowling about?” Kwang asked him at one point. “You’re shooting way better than everyone else.”

 _Not as well as Yukino Sensei_ , Mamoru thought but he couldn’t say that aloud, so he just clenched his jaw and raised another spear from his stack. Mamoru was almost full grown now, and ‘better than everyone else’ wasn’t good enough. A Matsuda had to be the best anyone had ever seen.

In his frustration, Mamoru threw his whole body into the movement,  _slamming_  the next spear toward its target. The projectile hit the 25-bound target and went through it.

“Falleke!” Kwang exclaimed as Mamoru’s projectile slid to a stop a bound or so beyond the target. “What was that?”

Not bothering to respond, Mamoru lifted another projectile from the stack. Using his jiya to keep it hovering at chest height, he backed up a few paces and  _ran_  at it. He didn’t even put the whole force of his jiya into the launch, but the projectile still managed to penetrate through the 25-bound target and come out the other side.

“What did you just do?” Kwang asked in astonishment.

“Why are we planting?” Mamoru said.

“What?”

“Why are we planting our feet and launching when we could add the power of momentum?”

“Mamoru-kun,” Yuuta warned, recognizing the look on his friend’s face. “You know what Sensei says about your fancy ideas—”

“I know,” Mamoru cut him off, raising another projectile. “Just give me a dinma.” He had to try it. He had to.

Locking his jiya into the ice, he threw the projectile high into the air and released. As the projectile started to fall, Mamoru backed up as far as the shelf allowed. He would have to hit the spear on its way down. It would require flawless timing, but timing came naturally to Mamoru.

He gave the spear one last moment to descend and then sprinted at it. On his last step, he sprang high into the air and spun. His forward momentum combined with the power of the spin, and the gravity pulling him earthward. Mamoru threw his jiya behind it. As his body whipped around, he drove his palm into the base of the projectile and launched. The power of an ocean storm surged through his palm.

All anyone saw was a flash of silver before the projectile slammed into the 40-bound target in a spray of straw. Mamoru’s feet hit the stone and he let out his breath. He had done it!

The mountainside rang with the shocked cries of his classmates, then with cheers, as they took in the destroyed 40-bound target. But when Mamoru’s eyes found Yukino Sensei, the sword master was not smiling.

“Matsuda!” He roared over the wind, and the class fell silent. “What in the three realms do you think you are doing?”

“Sorry, Sensei.” Mamoru tried to look apologetic, but he couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face.

“Get your ego under control. You will do the drill as I instruct, or you will leave my class. Do you understand?”

 “Yes, sir.”

Gradually, the rest of the class finished their excited murmurings and returned to the drill. Mamoru felt Yukino Sensei’s fingers dig into his ear, pulling his head back.

“Sensei!” Mamoru started as the man dragged him out of earshot of the rest of the class. “I—”

“Mamoru-kun,” Yukino Sensei cut him off in a low voice. “There is a reason we begin this drill with both feet on the ground. If I had the rest of these boys flying and spinning during this exercise, I would have a lot of dead boys. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sensei,” Mamoru said with a biting pang of guilt. He hadn’t thought of that; he had been too focused on himself.

“Matsudas are more than flashy fighters,” Yukino Sensei said. “They are leaders. And leaders must think of those around them.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Good.” Yukino Sensei released Mamoru’s aching ear and raised his hand. Mamoru flinched, expecting to feel the crack of Yukino Sensei’s knuckles on his forehead. But the sword master just put his hand atop his student’s head.

“Now,” he said, “if you are going to launch from a spin, make sure your knee is tucked all the way in. You lose momentum when you let your foot stick out. Learn to tuck that knee in and you’ll be firing spears further than mine in no time.”

In his surprise, Mamoru could only say, “Oh.”

“Practice at home, yes?”

“Yes, Sensei.”

When the wind on the shelf reached dangerous strength and the students started running low on projectiles, Yukino Sensei moved his class indoors for sword practice. The three hours of sparring wore most of the boys to exhaustion. To Mamoru, they felt more like a warm up, but he kept Yukino Sensei’s words in mind; he kept the other boys in mind. He had been guilty of bruising classmates who were too slow to block his wooden blade—which was all of them. But he was more careful today, bringing his bokken to a clean stop before smashing it into any ribs or necks.

Mamoru found a new level of focus trying to outmaneuver his classmates without actually hitting them. His heart sank when the bell rang, signaling the end of training. Knees shook and sweat dripped onto the tatami as the boys packed up their gear and headed to history class. To Kwang’s credit, he had not passed out as transfer students often did in Yukino Sensei’s sword class, although he didn’t seem to be able to walk without the support of the wall.

“Come on, city boy,” Yuuta teased, taking Kwang’s arm. “You can lean on me.”

“Mamoru,” Yukino Sensei stopped him before he could follow his classmates out of the dojo. “Excellent work today.”

“Thank you, Sensei.”

“I’m glad to see that your control is developing along with your ridiculous speed.”

Mamoru nodded. From the swordsman once known as Lightning Dai, that was high praise.

“I haven’t gotten the chance to speak with your father or uncle in some time,” Yukino Sensei said, returning the extra bokken to the closet. “Have either of them been working on the Whispering Blade with you?”

“I...” Mamoru felt his smile fade. “My father’s been trying to.”

“Good,” Yukino Sensei said earnestly. The pride in his eyes made Mamoru want to shrink in shame.

There was very little that did not come easily to Mamoru. But his father had been trying to teach him for almost a year now, and he hadn’t come anywhere near mastering his family’s bloodline technique. For thousands of years, the Matsuda family had passed down the secret to forming weapons of impervious ice. The technique was so difficult and complex that no non-Matsuda had ever figured it out—and Mamoru was starting to wonder how _anyone_  had ever figured it out. It wasn’t enough to be a lightning fast sword fighter. It wasn’t enough to be good at summoning and shaping ice. The Whispering Blade came from something deeper that Mamoru just didn’t understand. His father understood it. But Matsuda Takeru did not have Yukino Sensei’s magical ability to put his skill into words. And no matter how he explained, Mamoru could not understand.

“I’m not doing well,” he blurted out before thinking better of it. “Father is frustrated with me.”

Mamoru regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It was beyond inappropriate for a student to discuss his problems at home with his teacher. And it was forbidden for a Matsuda to discuss the details of the Whispering Blade with anyone outside the family. His words were dangerously close to doing both.

“I wish I could help you,” the sword master said after a moment, “but I’m a Yukino, and I’m not your father. Even if it were my place to speak to you about this, I wouldn’t be any help. I don’t know what the Whispering Blade entails.”

“I know, Sensei,” Mamoru said, looking at his feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“But I do know a great jijaka when I see one,” Yukino Sensei insisted. “I know that you have the same force of nyama in you as your father and other great fighters of your line. Stay focused on your goal, don’t let yourself get flustered, keep working hard, and I have no doubt that you’ll surpass all our expectations—including your own.”

Mamoru was so stunned—so touched—that he couldn’t find any words to thank his teacher. How did you thank someone for praise you didn’t deserve?

“Now, get to class,” Yukino Sensei said, nodding toward the door.

“Yes, Sensei.” Ducking his head, Mamoru gathered his practice swords and hurried to follow his classmates.

After the heart-pumping rush of sword practice, history class was always agony. When the wind was high, like it was today, the school creaked like an old ship, and Hibiki Sensei’s voice had a way of getting lost in the moaning of the wooden beams.

“There were a number of factors that led to the Great War, or what the Yammankalu call the Keleba.  _Ke-le-ba_.” Hibiki Sensei wrote the Yammaninke letters out on the board. “First, there was the tension between the colonial powers, Yamma and Sizwe, which were in constant competition with each other for the resources of Baxaria. Next, there was the tension created by the Baxarian colonies rejecting Yammanka and Sizwean rule. Last, of course, there was the tension between our own great empire and the extremist rebels in the west who would one day betray their nation to establish the Ranganese Union.”

Mamoru had to race to keep up with the notes:

 

_Keleba tensions:_

_Yamma vs. Sizwe – resources in Baxaria colonies_  
_Colonies vs. Yamma & Sizwe – independence_  
_Kaigenese Empire vs. Rebels (Ranganese Union) – rebel extremism_

 

“Are you not going to take notes?” Mamoru whispered to Kwang, noticing that the new boy had not even picked up his brushpen.

“Oh, I don’t have to. I’m used to learning the Yammanka way, with my ears. Besides,” he murmured even more quietly, “I’ve heard all this crap before anyway.”

“What?” Mamoru leaned in, unsure he had heard right. Had Kwang just called Hibiki Sensei’s history lesson crap?

“Matsuda-san,” Hibiki Sensei said sharply, “no talking in class.”

“Sorry, Sensei,” Mamoru said as the teacher returned to his lecture.

“Now, there are several background dates you will need to know in regard to the Keleba. The first one is 5153.”

He wrote the date on the board and Mamoru sank his teeth into the knuckles of his left fist, hoping the pain might keep him awake.

“This is the year of the first Abirian rebellion, when a group of violent extremists calling themselves the Longhouse Confederacy developed enough of a following to mount armed resistance against the Yammanka Empire. Abiria, despite being plagued by inter-tribal violence and not having a stable government of its own, wanted independence from Yamma. Of course, these disorganized extremists were quickly subdued by Yamma’s superior forces.”

Behind him, Mamoru thought he heard Kwang make a critical, “Hmm,” sound, but when he turned to look over his shoulder, the northern boy was listening quietly.

“With their inferior genetics, the Abirians’ defeat was inevitable. The Yammankalu are pure-blooded tajakalu, born and bred to wield the power they possess, whereas the Abirians who opposed them were of mixed blood, the product of intermarriage between the Abirian Natives, Yammankalu, Kaigenese immigrants, and most damaging of all, white slaves. This kind of impurity waters down the Falleke-given energies that give theonites their power. Mixed theonites such as the Abirians could never hope to stand unaided against a pure-blooded tajaka army.

“Now, I want to give you several dates relating to the Yammanka-Sizwean competition over their colonial territories.”

Mamoru tried to take notes as the history teacher droned on and found himself doodling instead. He started out drawing the straight blade of a sword, but a gust of wind pushed against the school, his brushpen slid, and the sword became a wave. Mamoru followed the new curve and added lines beneath it, turning it into a rough approximation of the Tsusano wave, his mother’s family crest. More waves fell in beside the Tsusano crest, some turned to fish, and Mamoru had filled half the page with stormy sea before he remembered that he was supposed to be taking notes.

“Now, we come to the dates leading up to the Keleba itself,” Hibiki Sensei said, and Mamoru tried to refocus on the lecture.

“5286,” Hibiki Sensei said, writing the year up on the board, “the year that the Carythian Union formed and resisted Yammanka rule.

“5287,” he wrote the next date as Mamoru scrambled to catch up with his notes. “In this year, the Sizwean colony of Malusia staged a major uprising that shook Sizwe’s control of the entire region. At the same time, there was a rash of peasant uprisings in the western part of the Kaigenese Empire. These were quickly put down by our own loyal soldiers, but they foreshadowed bigger rebellions to come...

“5288. Under the influence of corrupt politicians, a collection of city states, led by Ranga, rose against the Kaigenese Empire. This rebellion was put down the same year and its leaders publicly executed for their treason.

“5289, the year that Yamma defeated Sizwe for control of Malusia and pressed to take Sizwe’s other colonies, escalating the long-standing tensions between the two Kelenduguka super powers.

“5290. Kaigen’s western provinces rose up in rebellion once again. Using propaganda and false promises, the Thulanist rebels managed to trick the uneducated peasants of Ranga into following them in greater numbers than ever before. At the same time, the Longhouse Confederacy of Abiria staged a reprisal of its bid for independence in 5153, under the same flag.

“At the tail end of this year, on the twenty-eighth of Kribakalo, Ranganese terrorists attacked a graduation ceremony at Daybreak Academy in Carytha, killing principal Oyede Biida, along with several Yammanka and Kaigenese students. It was following this malicious and cowardly attack that Yamma agreed to support our great empire in its fight against the Ranganese rebels.

“5291. Early in this year, the Yammankalu allied with us, bringing foreign troops onto Kaigenese soil for the first time. In response to their involvement, Sizwe aligned itself both with our own rebel enemies and with the Abirian rebels fighting against Yamma for their independence. This led to open war between Yamma and Sizwe. Abtya aligned with Yamma.

“5292. This year marked the only time in Duna’s history that all the major theonite powers—Kaigen, Yamma, Abtya, and Sizwe—were at war, as well as the only time there was war on every continent. It was in this year that the Ranganese fonyakalu launched their attack on Shirojima and were soundly defeated.

“In the end, victory in war always comes down to bloodlines,” Hibiki Sensei said, turning to face his class with a dramatic flourish. “We here on the Sword of Kaigen are blessed to have some of the best and purest jijaka bloodlines in the world. Matsuda,” he said, pointing at Mamoru, “Yukino,” he indicated Yuuta, and then went on to point to the other great houses represented in the classroom, “Ameno, Ginkawa, Mizumaki, all of you belong to a chain of great fighters stretching back to mythic times.

“Since the dawn of Kaigen, this peninsula has held its enemies back without fail. This is why we are called the Sword of Kaigen. And again, during the Keleba, the Matsudas, the Yukinos, and the other powerful jijakalu of the Kusanagi Peninsula beat back their enemies in resounding victory.”

This time Mamoru was sure he heard a disdainful noise behind him, but he kept his attention on the lecture as Hibiki Sensei droned on.

“For this is the Sword of Kaigen; to charge it, is to die. When the Ranganese armada reached the Kusanagi Peninsula, the warriors of the Matsuda, Yukino, Ameno, and Ginkawa houses, along with all their vassal fighters formed a line along the beach. At the first news of Ranganese ships, our capital sent a request to Yamma for aid. But by the time the Yammanka forces reached our peninsula, the jijaka soldiers here—your own grandfathers and great grandfathers—had already laid waste to the Ranganese invaders.

“Yammanka pilots tell of flying the length of the peninsula to find the beaches awash in red, like the edge of the blade that has tasted victory. Prepared for battle, the men of Yamma flew lower, only to discover that the battle was done. The bodies in the sea wore Ranganese uniforms. The red staining the sand was the impure blood of fonyakalu. For the warriors of Kusanagi had fought with such fury that there were hardly any Kaigenese casualties.”

Mamoru heard Kwang let out an unmistakable huff of laughter. The teacher heard it too.

“Is our history funny to you, Kwang?”

“No, Sensei. I’m sorry.”

Hibiki Sensei gave Kwang a last cold look before turning back to the class to continue the lecture. “This is your history. This is your heritage. You are here at this school because you are the descendants of the greatest fighters Duna has ever seen. The best blood in the world flows through your veins. If you learn well, listen well, and work hard, the Sword of Kaigen will survive, bright and sharp, to be passed down to your sons, and their sons after them.”

 

 

**MISAKI**

 

In her first year at theonite academy, Misaki had scored top grades in all her courses. In her second year, she achieved one of the fastest times on the agility course, second only to Robin Thundyil’s. In her third year, she had moved on from Daybreak’s indoor obstacle course to the steep walls and rooftops of North End, Livingston. In her fourth year, she had bested some of Carytha’s most feared machete fighters in single combat. As a teenager, she had worn those accomplishments with pride… never realizing that at thirty-four, her proudest accomplishment would be getting five rambunctious children to nap at the same time.

 “Success?” she whispered when she arrived back home, arms full of sleeping five-year-old.

“Success!” Hyori confirmed as Misaki used her toes to slide the shoes off her feet. “They’re all asleep, just like you planned.”

Hiroshi had nodded off on Misaki’s shoulder as she carried him back from the elementary school. Fresh off of two hours of sword practice with children twice his size, even he ran out of steam. His hair was damp with sweat and his little hands were blistered from gripping the oversized practice sword, but he hadn’t uttered a word of complaint, just quietly collapsed against his mother and let her carry him the rest of the way home.

He was a strange creature, her second son. She had known when he was nothing more than a small heartbeat inside her that he was his father’s child. Cold. It was said that all jijakalu were born with something of the sea in them. But most seas had their warm currents and their cold, volcanic springs beneath ice. Even the iciest jijakalu had some body heat, some warm places in their soul—at least that was what Misaki had thought before she married into the Matsuda family. Hiroshi was born with the deadly calm of a sea frozen solid. Like his father, he was cold to the touch no matter his mood or level of exertion. Even his sweat was cool, like morning dew.

He murmured something about footwork as Misaki laid him on the futon where Ryota and Nagasa were already fast asleep.

“Shh,” Misaki breathed into his hair. “We’re almost five for five.”

“What?” Hiroshi’s eyes blinked open.

“Nothing.” Misaki put a hand on his forehead, easing him down beside his brother. “Nothing, little soldier. Just rest.”

“Mmm,” Hiroshi nodded and slipped off to sleep.

“And we did it!” Misaki whispered, sliding the door shut behind her. “All five of them are down.”

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Hyori asked.

“Probably not that long,” Misaki sighed, sinking down on the cushions beside the other two women. “The boys are all properly exhausted, but the babies will wake up hungry before long.”

Misaki wanted desperately to close her eyes and drop off to sleep too, but she knew she should make use of her free hands while they weren’t full of squirming infant. So she hauled herself up and got out her sewing. The family crest had begun to tear from the back of Takeru’s haori and needed to be re-stitched. Carefully, she picked out the right thread to match the dark blue diamonds of the Matsuda crest and threaded her needle.

At the height of the Matsuda family’s power, during Kaigen’s wars of succession all the way through the Keleba, the ancient compound had been full of servants who did all the cooking, cleaning, and sewing for the lady of the house. Takeru’s father had complained all the time about the damn vassal houses not sending servants anymore. But Misaki couldn’t fault poorer koronu for deserting a house that could not support them.

Warrior houses like the Matsuda subsisted on the rewards the government paid them for victories like the ones during the Keleba. In the middle of a war, victories were easy to come by. Peacetime was a different story. Over the years, even the promise of the chance to train with the greatest swordsmen in Kaigen hadn’t been enough to keep most of the common koronu in Takayubi’s villages.

Still, the Matsuda crest was a mark of pride, and Misaki made sure it was stitched into every coat, kimono, and haori they owned.

“I should probably get some work done too,” Hyori said, pulling her own sewing project out of the bag she had brought from home. As tired as Misaki had grown of stitching the same four diamonds into a dozen articles of clothing, she didn’t envy Hyori her sewing tasks; the Yukino insignia was a snowflake.

“It’s so quiet,” Setsuko mused. “I can’t remember the last time the compound was this quiet. You might be a genius, little sister.”

“Well, I try.” Misaki smiled.

“And to think, my poor mother raised  _nine of us_  in a house the size of this room!” Setsuko said. “No wonder she’s gotten loopy after all these years.”

“Oh, how  _is_  your mother, Setsuko?” Misaki asked, turning to her sister-in-law. “You went to visit her a few weeks back, didn’t you?” Misaki had been so busy juggling the new baby and the two older boys that she hadn’t gotten a moment of quiet to ask how the trip had gone.

“My mother is fine,” Setsuko said, “bizarrely, still in good health, but she  _is_  getting old. Like I said, her mind is going a bit. She’s convinced the Ranganese are going to come across the ocean to attack us.”

“Why does she think that?” Hyori was laughing, but Misaki stilled, her grip tightening on her needle.

“She says she can feel it,” Setsuko said, “an ‘old fisherwoman’s intuition’ or something like that. She says fonyaka wind tastes different from the normal sea air.”

“Well, she  _has_  lived on the ocean for ninety years,” Misaki said. “She was here the last time the Ranganese came. Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

“You think my kooky mother is on to something?” Setsuko said in amusement.

“If the Ranganese were to attack, this area would be the first to feel it,” Misaki said, “and the first hit.”

The Kusanagi Peninsula extended far out into the Kaigenese Sea, barring the way to the archipelago’s safe ports and beaches. Any invader from the sea had to first get past the mountainous spit of land and its inhabitants.

“But we don’t have anything to fear from Ranga,” Hyori said dismissively. “Our brothers and husbands are powerful enough to turn away any invaders. And anyway, if there was a serious threat from the Ranganese, the government would have told us.”

“Maybe,” Misaki said, doubtful.

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” Hyori asked.

“I mean...” Misaki paused. “I just mean that the news isn’t necessarily true.”

“What?” Hyori looked positively stricken and Misaki wished she hadn’t said anything.

“Misaki-chan says some weird, ominous things sometimes,” Setsuko said with a reproachful look at her sister-in-law. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

But Hyori was still staring at Misaki, uncomprehending. “You... are you saying our government would  _lie_  to us?”

The answer was ‘yes,’ of course, but Misaki couldn’t say that straight. That just wasn’t the sort of thing you said in Kaigen.

“Misaki?” Hyori prompted, and there was so much fear and hurt in those pretty eyes that Misaki had to offer some response. She bit her lip, choosing her words carefully.

“I went to school with a lot of Yammanka jaseliwu,” she said finally, “self-proclaimed keepers of Yamma’s history. The funny thing about these jaseliwu was that, depending on their family, their native region of Yamma, and the koronu they served, they told very different histories. Sometimes two of them would sit right next to each other and tell conflicting accounts of the same event. I talked to one of these jaseliwu. I asked him how he could say that his history was true, when the next jaseli over told me a different story and claimed that that was true. In my mind, one of them had to be lying. I told him that.”

“And what did he say?” Setsuko asked.

“He said, ‘there are a million ways to tell the same story. Our job as jaseliwu is to find the one the listener needs to hear. Not necessarily the one that makes them the happiest or the one that gives them the most information, but the one they need to hear to do what they need to do.’ He told me that’s how jaseliwu care for koronu and other kafokalu.”

“Alright,” Hyori said, clearly confused. “What does that have to do with our government?”

“Well, I think that’s the way the Kaigenese government takes care of us,” Misaki said, “the same way a jaseli in Yamma takes care of his koro.” Of course, in Yamma, jaseliwu were free to decide the way they sang their songs and told their histories. They weren’t issued government-approved scripts to recite. But that wasn’t a discussion Hyori would appreciate. “Our government tells us the things we need to hear.”

From the way Hyori was blinking at her, Misaki could tell she didn’t understand.

“So, do you think our government is right about how safe we are?” Setsuko asked. “Or do you think my dear old mother is onto something?”

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been out of the country,” Misaki admitted, “but I know that the fonyakalu can do more than our government lets on.”

“Really?” Hyori didn’t look convinced. “Like what?”

“Well, back when the Ranganese first split from the Empire, warfare was different,” Misaki said. “The Kaigenese Empire’s military had always been based on jijakalu like us, with fonyakalu as an afterthought.”

“Well, that’s only natural,” Hyori said. “Fonyakalu are just untrained peasants. Jijakalu are purer, more powerful.”

“Well, not really,” Misaki said. “Not always.”

“What are you talking about?” Hyori asked with a note of annoyance. “If fonyakalu are truly as good as we are, why would our Empire ever keep a military of all jijakalu?”

“Because the Empire’s main centers of power—Jungsan, Shirojima, Haijing—have always been peopled mainly by jijakalu,” Misaki said, her sewing forgotten in her lap. “The success of the Ranganese Revolution proved that a big force of fonyakalu, even a disorganized one, could defeat a jijaka army.”

“But they  _didn’t_  defeat us,” Hyori said indignantly. “The revolution wasn’t a success.”

“Well,” Setsuko said, “they  _did_  split the Empire in half.”

“But they didn’t truly best our armies,” Hyori insisted. “As soon as they reached the ocean, we drove them back inland.”

“Right.” Misaki forgot that that was what you learned if you went to high school in Kaigen, but she didn’t need to argue that with Hyori right now. “You’re right. But that’s part of my point. During the Keleba, the Ranganese military was not well-organized or well-trained. Fonyakalu had never worked together in those numbers, so they hadn’t figured out specialized military formations to rival ours or Yamma’s. But the Ranganese Union has been a sovereign power for seventy-eight years now. They’ve had decades to figure out how to function as a fighting force. Those groups of fonyakalu can do things no one would have dreamed of fifty years ago.”

“How do you know all this?” Hyori asked.

“Hush now, Hyori-chan,” Setsuko said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Takeru-san doesn’t like anyone to mention this, but Misaki-chan actually lived outside Kaigen for a long time.”

“ _No_!” Hyori’s pretty eyes widened in shock.

“Oh, yes,” Setsuko said. “When she was a teenager, she attended this fancy international theonite school in Carytha.”

“Carytha!” Hyori’s eyes got even bigger. “So far!”

“Yes,” Setsuko said, reveling in the younger woman’s shock, “and at that weird international school, Misaki made all kinds of weird international friends, including this roommate of hers, who was...” Setsuko paused for dramatic effect before whispering, “a Ranganese fonyaka!”

“No!” Hyori exclaimed again, dropping her sewing to put both hands over her mouth. “Misaki-san, wasn’t that scary?”

“Not really,” Misaki said, not looking up from her own work. “She was just a thirteen-year-old girl, and I think she was more scared of me than I was of her—at least until we got to know each other better.”

“But you couldn’t really be friends, could you?” Hyori said anxiously. “I mean, she was _Ranganese_!”

Misaki shrugged. “We argued a lot during our first two years. Her table manners weren’t my favorite...” but she stopped before trying to elaborate any further. Trying to explain her school days to Hyori would probably do more harm than good. Misaki generally considered it a bad idea to talk about Daybreak to anyone but Setsuko—and even Setsuko couldn’t really understand. There was only so much a person  _could_  understand, having lived her whole life on the same tiny island cluster.

“And your fonyaka roommate... she’s the one who told you these things about the Ranganese military?” Hyori said.

“Some of them, yes,” Misaki said. Of course she had also had other Ranganese friends, acquaintances, and professors, but Hyori didn’t need to know that.

“Well, then she probably made it up,” Hyori said with the kind of innocent confidence that could only come from a life lived in the mists of nationalism. “Everyone knows Ranganese people can’t be trusted.”

Misaki didn’t respond.

“And anyway,” Hyori continued matter-of-factly, “it doesn’t matter how strong the Ranganese Union has gotten because Kaigen is stronger now too. You can look at any news report to see that our military is bigger than ever and our economy is booming.”

Misaki didn’t comment, focusing instead on her sewing. Personally, she suspected that Kaigen was not actually experiencing the economic paradise that the TV reporters claimed. Or if they were, the wealth wasn’t extending to Shirojima. Setsuko’s fishing village had fallen on hard times, and the last time Misaki’s parents had visited, they told her that the two major factories in their town had closed, leaving a thousand people without jobs. Years ago, the Empire had promised a modern magtrack between Shirojima’s major islands, but the project had never been finished.

“It’s laughable to think that Ranga poses any threat to us here,” Hyori said. “Any warrior will tell you, Kaigen has the strongest fighters.”

“Any warrior will tell you even the strong can’t afford complacency,” Misaki murmured.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Misaki shook her head. “It’s not important.”

As Setsuko offered Hyori laughing reassurances, Misaki stared at the blue cloth diamonds in her lap, and wondered why she hadn’t thought about this sooner. The Keleba had cost Kaigen its most productive agricultural provinces, most of its underpaid work force, and many of its major trade routes—resources that now belonged to the Ranganese Union.

The fonyakalu at Daybreak had been able to do things Misaki never would have dreamed of—and that had been a long time ago. What could Ranga’s armies do with sixteen more years of practice? Kaigen may have avoided total collapse the last time it went to war with Ranga, but would the Empire fare as well against a new attack? When Misaki stepped back to consider all the pieces, it stood to reason that Ranga was far stronger than it had been at the time of the Keleba, and Kaigen was far weaker.

But here, high in the obscuring mists of Takayubi, where nothing seemed to have changed for a thousand years, it was easy to believe the fantasy of a stable world.

 

 

**MAMORU**

 

As the class made their way to the schoolyard for lunch, Mamoru picked up his pace to catch up with Kwang.

“What was that about?” he asked, falling into step beside the city boy.

“What was what about?” Kwang asked.

“Back there in history class. Why were you laughing?”

“I was trying not to,” Kwang said, “and I wouldn’t call what that jaseli was spewing  _history_.”

“What do you mean?” Keichi demanded as he and Yuuta caught up.

“You realize that at least half the stuff he tells you isn’t even true.” Kwang looked around at the three Shirojima boys. “It’s propaganda.”

“Propaganda?” Mamoru had only heard the word used a few times before. People said that propaganda was what the Ranganese Union used to trick its uneducated citizens into fighting its battles. But it was a distinctly Ranganese thing. Kaigen didn’t use propaganda. Everyone knew that.

“Falleke!” Kwang swore. “You guys in this village really believe all this stuff don’t you? You believe everything the government tells you?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Keichi asked earnestly.

“You must see what’s happening here.” Kwang’s voice was almost imploring as he looked from one face to the next. “The emperor is using you.”

“We’re happy to serve our emperor,” Yuuta chimed in passionately. “How can he be using us?”

“He can feed you lies about Ranga, and about your own ancestors. He can make you think you’re invincible when you’re really not.”

“We’re the greatest warriors in Kaigen,” Yuuta said fiercely.

Kwang scoffed. “That’s a fancy way to say cannon fodder.”

Mamoru’s voice turned to ice. “What did you just say?”

From the way Kwang went tense, it was obvious that he felt the simmering fury of Mamoru’s nyama. Mamoru watched the northern boy’s eyes flick in indecision, and then felt a grudging flutter of admiration when the city boy held his ground and looked him in the eye.

“I said you’re cannon fodder.” Kwang’s voice was even. “The emperor will give you guys any made-up story if it means you’ll stay put and die for him. You may think you’re great warriors with some noble purpose, but as far as the capital is concerned, you’re just pawns.”

Mamoru stood, staring down at Kwang, his eyes narrowed. The ocean seethed in his fists. “Take that back.”

“I’m not taking anything back,” Kwang said stubbornly. “I’m going to lunch.” He made to walk away, but Mamoru stepped in front of him, barring his way out of the courtyard.

“I said take it back.”

“You think you scare me, Matsuda?” Kwang’s fingers curled and Mamoru felt the other boy’s jiya ripple, ready for action. “I don’t care how good a fighter you are. If you take another step closer, I’ll—”

Mamoru stepped forward. “You’ll what?”

Kwang moved fast. His ice-knuckled uppercut would have worked on just about any theonite, but Mamoru was not just any theonite. He dodged the attack and had the city boy on the ground in an instant. There was a satisfying thud as Kwang’s back hit the courtyard’s stones, knocking the breath from his body.

Still stunned, the northern boy tried to draw the surrounding water vapor to his hands for another attack, but Mamoru’s jiya smashed through his, yanking the molecules from his control. He hauled Kwang up by the front of his uniform. The mist gathered to form a blade of ice along the back of his free hand, protruding from the knuckles to point at Kwang’s throat. It was no steel-cleaving Whispering Blade, but it would pierce a human body.

“Whoa!” Mamoru could barely hear Keichi and Yuuta’s alarmed voices through the rising swell of his rage. “Easy, Mamoru-kun! Take the edge off that blade before we get in trouble!”

“You’re a good fighter,” Kwang said, somehow still smug with a blade at his throat, “and your small town pride is cute, but it’s all based on a lie.”

Mamoru’s teeth ground together and his ice sharpened.

“Mamoru-kun, you don’t want to kill him!”

“You’re right.” Mamoru let out his breath, his blade turning to water. What he wanted to do was punch Kwang in his smug face.

So he did.

Right as the headmaster walked into the schoolyard.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.

**MAMORU**

 

Mamoru’s eyes were fixed on his knees, but he could feel the headmaster’s icy gaze boring into him. Kwang was kneeling on the tatami of the office beside him, a cloth pressed to his face to stem the blood pouring from his nose. The blow hadn’t broken anything—Mamoru had better control than that—but the northern boy would be bleeding for a while.

“Kwang Chul-hee is new here,” the headmaster said, setting his brushpen aside to fold his hands on the desk before him. “It’s possible that he was not taught any better at his previous school, but Mamoru, you _know_ that this is not how the warriors of Takayubi settle their differences.”

Mamoru’s fists clenched on his knees, the knuckles of his right hand still stinging as his insides curled up in shame.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said at his knees.

“I’m sorry that you were not able to set a better example for our new transfer student,” the headmaster said and the hard disapproval in his voice was more than Mamoru could bear. “You’re talented, Mamoru, but talent is meaningless without self-discipline. You will never be a fully realized Matsuda if you continuously let your pride run away with your principles.”

Choked with shame, Mamoru could only nod.

“And Kwang Chul-hee.” The headmaster turned to the bleeding boy. “I want to make it clear that this sort of behavior is not tolerated in this school or this village. The sons of common peasants may come to blows in schoolyard brawls, but not warriors. We settle our differences in single combat. The next time you and Matsuda Mamoru have a quarrel, you will take it to the arena, or you will keep it to yourselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Kwang mumbled as best he could with blood still running from his nose.

“As punishment, you will both stay after school and clean the entire roof—without the use of your powers.”

Mamoru’s heart sank. That was going to take forever.

“You may use ice to anchor your feet,” the headmaster continued, “but you will do the cleaning itself with your bare hands. Kwang, I will contact your father and tell him you will be staying late this evening. Mamoru...” He looked for a long moment at his nephew and sighed. “I’ll let your mother know when I get home.”

The shame in Mamoru’s chest turned to physical pain. He had to clench his teeth to keep from blurting out ‘ _Please don’t tell her!_ ’ He knew a real warrior wasn’t supposed to concern himself with the opinions of women, but Mamoru couldn’t help it. He dreaded his mother’s disappointment more than any man’s hard glare.

“Now, go,” the headmaster said, shaking back his sleeves and picking up his brushpen to continue his work. “Get yourselves cleaned up and don’t be late for your next class.”

Both boys said a quiet, “Yes, sir,” and bowed themselves out of the room.

“What does he mean he’ll tell your mom when he gets home?” Kwang asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the headmaster’s office. “You live with the headmaster? Wait.” Kwang’s eyes went wide. “Is he your _father_?”

Mamoru could only manage a miserable noise, putting a hand to his face.

“Is he your father?” Kwang repeated.

 _Worse_. “He’s my uncle.”

“Wow!” Kwang laughed, surprisingly cheerful for a boy who had just been punched in the nose. “Is everyone in this town related?”

Mamoru didn’t answer. He just said stiffly, “Let’s go to the washroom and clean off your face. You’re getting your blood everywhere.”

“Technically, _you_ got my blood everywhere,” Kwang said, but followed Mamoru down the creaking hall toward the washroom. “Was the headmaster serious about challenging people to single combat? You guys really still do that?”

“How else would we settle our differences?”

“I don’t know. Talking?”

“Maybe that’s a luxury you have in the cities. Here, we keep ourselves and our convictions strong.”

While Kwang cleaned up his face, Mamoru paced the hall outside the washroom. There was no reason for him to stay really. Kwang knew the way back from the washroom, and Mamoru would still have time for lunch if he hurried. But somehow, he couldn’t get himself to walk away. He couldn’t unseat the feeling that somehow things weren’t finished here.

As he listened to the slosh of water inside the washroom—Kwang cleaning the blood from his face—his own blood seemed to churn inside him. His fists clenched and he felt his knuckles pulsing an echo of his fist against Kwang’s face. The rage echoed too, sending restless ripples through his nyama that he couldn’t seem to calm.

When Mamoru’s temper got the best of him, his father liked to blame it on Kaa-chan. Her clan were a wrathful, passionate lot, born of sea spray and crashing waves. Neither the most powerful nor the most skilled of Kaigen’s warrior houses, the Tsusano had made their name on the battlefield with their fury and spirit. It was said that the power of a true Tsusano was as changeable and devastating as a coastal storm.

But Mamoru was not a Tsusano. He was a Matsuda. And Matsudas were not made of storms. They were ice—cold in their calculations and unyielding in their integrity. He was not supposed to let his emotions whip his soul into storms.

 _You are ice,_ he reminded himself, rubbing his thumb back and forth, back and forth over his knuckles as he tried to think of the unyielding Matsuda way to deal with Kwang. The mature warrior would obviously apologize for losing his temper. Like Headmaster Matsuda had said, that was no way for a warrior to behave.

Then again, Headmaster Matsuda didn’t know what Kwang had been saying before Mamoru laid him out on the courtyard floor. Kwang was a traitor to the Empire—or if not that, something dangerously close. If he was just making up lies to stir up conflict, Mamoru shouldn’t bother apologizing. He should take the city boy straight to the arena and beat some respect into him. But if Kwang wasn’t lying... If he wasn’t lying... Mamoru leaned back against a wall, feeling vaguely sick.

Mamoru’s thoughts ran in dizzying circles. He was still trying to decide what to do when the door opened and Kwang emerged, dabbing blood from his upper lip.

“Oh,” Kwang said mildly. “You’re still here?”

Mamoru inhaled and opened his mouth, hoping the right words would come to him. They didn’t. So he dropped to his knees and put his hands on the floor before him.

“Um... what are you doing?” Kwang said apprehensively.

Mamoru bowed until his forehead touched his fingers. “Kwang-san,” he started, “I—”

“I decline,” Kwang said quickly.

“What?” Mamoru lifted his head.

“If you’re challenging me to a duel, I decline—or I forfeit, or surrender, or whatever it is you people do. I saw you in sword class. I’m not going to fight you. You can’t make me.”

“What? That’s not what I’m doing,” Mamoru said, putting his head to the floor again. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I should not have said those things to you. A warrior shouldn’t lose his temper like that. It was wrong of me.”

“Was it?” Kwang said.

“What?”

“You’re patriotic and loyal. You’re exactly what everyone’s told you to be.”

There was a note of condescension in Kwang’s voice that made Mamoru’s fingers tense, aching to curl into fists. But he was trying to demonstrate control, not to lose his temper all over again. When he couldn’t think of anything to say, he pressed his forehead harder into his knuckles, worried that if he looked up at Kwang he would punch him again.

“Get up,” Kwang sighed after a moment. When Mamoru didn’t move a muscle, he added an impatient, “Please. I want to show you something.”

Reaching into the fold of his uniform, Kwang pulled out the smallest info-com device Mamoru had ever seen. It was barely bigger than his palm.

“You brought that to school?” Mamoru said. He wasn’t sure if having an info-com device was even allowed at Kumono, but he got the feeling it wasn’t.

“I bring it with me everywhere,” Kwang said, tapping a command into the sleek glass device. “That’s what us city kids do. Let me just see...” He tapped around the screen, searching for something. “Here.” He brought up the crispest holographic image Mamoru had ever seen, a tall obsidian statue in the middle of a sunny courtyard.

“What is that?” Mamoru asked.

“Near the Yammanka capital, there’s this huge park filled with memorials in honor of the soldiers that died in pretty much every battle Yamma ever fought. While my dad was doing work in in Kolunjara, I had spare time to explore, and I found this memorial.”

The gleaming black glass formed the shape of a fighter jet, and beside it, a Yammanka pilot—a _woman_ —with her helmet resting on her hip, her long braids pulled back and her chin lifted toward the sun.

Mamoru had heard that the Yammanka army and air force employed females, but there was something strange about seeing a curvy young woman in full military gear. She didn’t look bad, Mamoru reflected, as he stared at the pilot; she looked strong. But it was still strange.

“This statue—this whole part of the park, actually—is dedicated to Yammankalu who lost their lives fighting in Kaigen.”

“But no Yammankalu died in Kaigen,” Mamoru said in confusion. “Hibiki Sensei was just telling us about that. The Empire drove the Ranganese back before the Yammanka reinforcements even arrived.”

“Well...” Kwang tapped a command into the info-com device, zooming in on the white Yammaninke lettering at the base of the statue.

“ _Bundanu... bundanuttaananu sayara ka_ …” Mamoru started to sound out the inscription but his Yammaninke wasn’t very good.

“ _Bundanuttaananu sayara ka dima Kaigenka kelejonyunu ye Kusanagi Gungille la to hakili da_ ,” Kwang finished and translated for him. “ _In memory of the warriors who gave their lives defending our Kaigenese allies on the Kusanagi Peninsula._ ”

The memorial was hung with Falleya talismans, the kind family members hand-crafted and left on the graves of their loved ones. It was clear from the photo that real people had visited the site to mourn and remember. But how could that be? How could that be? Hibiki Sensei had said that no Yammankalu died in Shirojima. Not one.

“I was surprised too,” Kwang said. He seemed to be watching Mamoru’s face carefully. “I asked the park jaseliwu about it, and they said that over four hundred Yammanka soldiers died here. “Most of them were air support. Yammanka jets weren’t the best back then. Apparently, the fonyakalu ripped them right out of the sky, and crashed them into the Kaigenese troops on the ground.”

The school swayed, throwing Mamoru off balance, and he had to put a hand on the wall to stay on his feet. Dimly, he was aware that he couldn’t just let Kwang stand there and say these things. He had to fight. A Matsuda always stood and fought. But Mamoru had never taken a hit—from a foot, fist, or practice sword—that shook him this badly. He felt sick deep in his stomach.

“I don’t believe you,” he insisted, even as the obsidian pilot stared back at him from Kwang’s screen. “That’s not real. Th-that can’t be—”

“It’s not the only memorial.” Kwang tapped his way to another image. “This one honors over two thousand Yammanka fighters who died helping the Kaigenese Empire defend Jungsan and push the Ranganese back to our current border.”

The thin mountain air had never bothered Mamoru; why did he feel like there was no oxygen in his body? “No.” He was shaking his head. “No, no. That can’t be. That can’t be right. Hibiki Sensei says—everyone knows—the Ranganese never reached Jungsan. That-that’s ridiculous.”

“I didn’t want to believe it either, but the evidence is really solid. Our Empire wouldn’t have survived the Ranganese Revolution without Yammanka aid. The Yammankalu have no reason to lie about this.”

“But—they _must_ be lying,” Mamoru insisted. “They must be. If this were all true, if all these Yammankalu did fight here, why wouldn’t we know about it? Why wouldn’t Hibiki Sensei tell us?”

“Has he ever been outside Kaigen?” Kwang asked.

“I don’t think so.” It was very possible that Hibiki Sensei had never been outside the Shirojima prefecture. “But my grandfather fought in that battle. A lot of people’s older relatives were there. Why wouldn’t they talk about it?”

“It’s possible the government ordered them not to,” Kwang suggested. “It happens.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Mamoru said, pushing through his inexplicable dizziness to get his thoughts in order. “This is Kaigen. We’re a warrior culture. Our emperor and his officials would never disrespect thousands of fallen warriors by covering up their deaths. Kaigenese or not, those are soldiers who fought and died here. How could you think that Kaigen would show them such disrespect?”

“Because Kaigen _isn’t_ a warrior culture,” Kwang said impatiently. “I know you think it is. I know you guys here in this village have these nice, wholesome, old-fashioned values, but have you ever been outside this province?”

“I... no,” Mamoru had to admit.

“Then you wouldn’t know,” Kwang said, “you couldn’t, but the rest of the Empire hasn’t held old warrior values for a hundred years. The emperor doesn’t care who lives and dies; he definitely doesn’t care about fighting nobly. He cares that his Empire stays intact under him.”

“But...” Mamoru floundered. “But that can’t—that doesn’t explain why the government would lie to us about the Keleba.”

“Of course it does,” Kwang said. “You guys are the Sword of Kaigen. You’re the buffer between Ranga and the rest of the Empire’s eastern islands. The emperor needs you to think you’re invincible. And he needs the rest of the eastern islands to believe that the Kusanagi Peninsula can protect them from anything.”

“Why?”

“So you islanders won’t leave. So you’ll stay here and keep fishing the coasts, and farming the land to fuel the Empire, so you’ll die protecting his lands, instead of moving into the overpopulated cities and get disillusioned about the state of the Empire like everyone else.”

“No, no, no.” Mamoru was shaking his head again. “I don’t believe you.” He backed away from Kwang, but the northern boy’s words had already sunk into his mind like poison. He had already seen the Yammanka statues. “I don’t believe you.”

“Matsuda-san.” Kwang reached out to him. “It’s okay—”

“Don’t touch me!” Mamoru pushed Kwang back. “Just stay away!” To his horror, Mamoru realized that his impeccably steady hands had started shaking.

“Matsuda-san—”

“I said stay away!” Mamoru shoved Kwang so hard that he slammed into the washroom door. And in a few staggering steps, he was running down the hall—he didn’t know where. Just away. Away from Kwang.

 _You are a Matsuda_ , he tried to tell himself. _You are solid ic_ e. But his inner sea had turned to frothing brine.

The floor shifted, pitching him into a wall. He stumbled to get his feet under him but the whole world seemed to be spinning. It couldn’t be true. But it couldn’t be a lie. But it _couldn’t_ be true. And Mamoru couldn’t seem to find his balance.

Kwang’s words had knocked the world off its axis.

Aimless, Mamoru found himself staggering out onto one of Kumono’s outdoor walkways. Wind stung his skin, scrambling his vision into a mess of bloodstained sand and careening fighter jets. He caught himself on the waist-height railing and found the mountain spinning beneath him, its mists, usually so familiar, suddenly gray and sinister. And for the first time in his three years at the swaying school, Mamoru threw up.

 

........

 

Mamoru’s stomach settled after he had emptied most of its contents down the mountainside. He didn’t understand what had happened to him—and he decided it was best not to give it any more thought. No good could come of revisiting a bunch of shameful weakness and treasonous lies. It had been a mistake. All of it—the fight, the apology, that whole conversation with Kwang. No one had seen Mamoru retching his dignity over the railing. He washed the acid out of his teeth, shook off the dizziness, and pretended it had never happened. None of it had happened. He made himself ice. Uncompromising. Unmovable. And none of it could touch him.

He didn’t speak to Kwang during the second half of the day. He didn’t even look at him. Kwang—perhaps out of concern for his own safety—didn’t press the issue, and Mamoru successfully pretended he didn’t exist until classes finished. It wasn’t until they the two met after school to serve out their cleaning time that the two exchanged any words.

“What is that for?” Kwang asked as Mamoru emerged from the closet with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“It’s for you,” Mamoru said coldly, “unless you want to walk around on the roof for a waati with no safety harness.”

“Oh.”                   

Without meeting the other boy’s eyes, Mamoru tied one end of the rope around Kwang’s waist.

“So, I’m— _ugh_!” Kwang grunted as Mamoru yanked the knot tight. “Ow,” he said with a reproachful look at Mamoru. “So, I’m supposed to trust you not to let me fall to my death?”

Mamoru glared. “Don’t be an idiot. If you fall, so do I.”

After securing the other end of the rope around his own waist, Mamoru hauled a ladder out of the closet and motioned Kwang to follow him to the nearest outdoor walkway. The wind had calmed since their midday training. _Good_ , Mamoru thought. _Cleaning should go fast_.

Kwang was not looking so reassured.

“We’re going to climb up there?” he asked as Mamoru positioned the ladder against the edge of the roof.

“Yes.”

“And... you’re sure this isn’t all some elaborate plan to have me killed for treason?” The unsteadiness in Kwang’s voice suggested that he was only partially joking. So Mamoru looked him dead in the eye.

“If I kill you, you’ll be facing me with a sword in your hand.” He nodded at the ladder. “Climb.”

Of all the chores to be done at Kumono Academy, cleaning the roof was the most dangerous. For the most part, Takayubi’s abundant rain kept the clay tiles clean. But with the run-off from further up the mountain soil, branches, and dead leaves gathered in the curved parts of the roof. When the rooftop became visibly dirty, sure-footed students were sent up to clear it. Using sheets of water to wash the tiles, it was the work of a few siiranu. But Headmaster Matsuda had specifically forbidden the two from using their jiya to clean. Instead, Mamoru and Kwang would have to scoop up the layers of with their bare hands, and throw it off the edge of the roof. The chore would have been hard enough work with a competent cleaning partner. But Kwang was afraid of heights.

By the time he reached the top of the ladder, the northern boy was visibly shaking.

“I can’t—” he stuttered on his hands and knees. “I can’t do this.”

Mamoru felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction at seeing the casually arrogant city boy so terrified, but he crushed the feeling before it could swell beyond his control. _You are ice. He doesn’t affect you_.

“Get up,” he said.

“I can’t. I’m going to fall.”

“I said I wouldn’t let you fall,” Mamoru said. “I’m not a liar. Now stand up.”

“I can’t!” Kwang called back in frustration. “My leg muscles are all shot from your insane sword class!”

Mamoru could sympathize. He couldn’t count the number of times he had worked his legs until they wouldn’t hold him up anymore. It was how he had gotten his steel-wrought muscles. But it was hard to feel sorry for someone while they were whinging and whining.

“Just endure it,” he said. “As soon as we’re done, we can go home.”

“H-how do I stand up without falling?” Kwang asked.

A fair question. While the roof wasn’t dauntingly steep, the smooth clay tiles were too slippery for even a sure-footed theonite to walk across them safely. And with the exception of the decorative stone dragons snaking their way across the roof’s broad beams, there were no handholds.

“You have to put water under your feet,” Mamoru said, gathering mist and condensation into liquid beneath the soles of his own tabi. “Then freeze it so you don’t slide. Like this.” He waved a hand over his own feet, freezing the water into hard ice that anchored him to the steep roof tiles. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Kwang nodded shakily and started to gather water to the soles of his shoes.

“Good,” Mamoru said, and turned away from Kwang, determined not to give the northern boy any more thought.

Mamoru moved across the roof with careful ease, melting his ice whenever he needed to move and refreezing it when he found a new foothold. Had he been doing the job alone, he would have finished within a waati. But he kept reaching the end of the rope and looking back to find Kwang far behind him, struggling to keep his balance on the steep surface as he collected tiny handfuls of dead leaves. A few times, Kwang let out a short cry and almost flailed off the edge roof in panic when Mamoru changed position.

“What?” Mamoru snapped the third time it happened.

“Could you just—could you just tell me when you’re going to move?” Kwang said, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady. “Just—so I can be sure I’m secure?”

“Fine,” Mamoru said, his impatience starting to wear through his icy exterior. “But hurry up. If we don’t finish in the next gbaati, we’ll lose the light.”

The sun was already low in the sky and trying to navigate the roof in the dark would be doubly dangerous. But despite all Mamoru’s harsh words, Kwang didn’t seem capable of working any faster. They had barely finished a quarter of the roof by the time the sun turned red and began to sink into sea of mist.

“This is impossible!” Kwang complained for what felt like the hundredth time. “Couldn’t we just use our powers and be done with it?”

“No,” Mamoru said shortly.

“Why not? The headmaster doesn’t have to know.”

“He’ll know,” Mamoru said.

“How?”

“He’s a Matsuda—the _head_ Matsuda,” Mamoru said. “He will know.”

“Just a tiny bit of jiya?” Kwang pressed, “Just to speed things along?”

“That would be dishonest,” Mamoru said.

Kwang made that little scoffing sound that Mamoru had come to hate over the past waatinu. He meant to ignore it, but he found himself turning on Kwang, bristling. “Listen, I don’t know how it works in all the fancy foreign places you’ve traveled, but here in Takayubi, we value honesty. We don’t just make up ridiculous, self-serving lies whenever we feel like it.”

Kwang looked up at Mamoru with an unreadable expression, the lines of his face colored by the setting sun. Without the blood red hue, he almost could have looked sad.

“I _have_ been honest with you, Matsuda-san.”

 _You are ice,_ Mamoru reminded himself and returned Kwang’s stare without emotion. “Just keep working.”

“Matsuda-san, you have to understand—”

“I’m not discussing this with you,” Mamoru snapped. “I don’t want to listen to disgusting lies, and neither does anyone else in this village. So, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop spouting them.” Mamoru glared at Kwang, waiting for him— _daring_ him—to respond.

Maybe the northern boy had run out of energy for argument or maybe he was too scared of falling to anger the anchor at the other end of his rope. Whatever the reason, he didn’t say anything in his defense. Mamoru couldn’t say why, but that annoyed him more than ever.

 _What’s the matter?_ he wanted to demand. _Nothing more to say now that the teachers aren’t here to protect you?_ But he forced himself to let the anger go. With a wave of his hand, he melted his ice anchor to allow him to edge further down the roof.

“Wait,” Kwang protested, “I’m not ready—”

“I don’t care,” Mamoru said, and turned away from Kwang to reach for the uppermost beam of the temple roof. “Move faster.”

Kwang, of course, chose that exact moment to lose his footing. It must have happened quite suddenly because his weight jerked against the rope so hard that Mamoru was ripped right off his feet. Mamoru might have been able to recover, but the fall smacked his head into the roof tiles. Stars exploded before his eyes, costing him precious moments. When he regained his bearings, it was just in time to feel his body tumble over the edge of the roof.

His hands scrabbled for purchase, slid helplessly over the clay tiles, over the stone dragon’s head adorning the corner of the roof—then caught on the dragon’s snarling lower mandible.

Kwang’s weight yanked the rope tight, slamming into Mamoru’s stomach like a practice sword to the gut. He grimaced as stone teeth dug into his fingers, but his grip held. Barely. On the other end of the rope, Kwang was flailing in panic.

“Oh Nami! Oh Falleke!” he gasped, his terrified voice echoing through the darkness below. “We’re going to die!”

“Stop moving!” Mamoru commanded through gritted teeth.

If Kwang could just make himself dead weight, Mamoru could pull them both to safety. But the two of them were dangling by fingertips and every time Kwang squirmed, it got harder to hold on.

“Help!” Kwang screamed. “Somebody help!”

“No one’s here,” Mamoru said. The last of the staff would all have gone home at least a gbaati ago. And short of Yukino Sensei and the headmaster himself, no one would have the power to help them out of their current position. “Just calm down. I’m going to pull us back up.”

Mamoru had the strength in him to get them back onto the roof, but it was going to be a delicate operation. And if tried to do it with Kwang thrashing around like an oversized fish at the end of a hook, they were both doomed. Though Mamoru’s grip on the dragonhead didn’t falter, his grip on his temper did as Kwang continued to gibber in panic.

“I’m too young to die! I’m too young to die!”

“Would you shut up!” Mamoru snarled. “We’re not going to die!” But as the words left his mouth, a horrible thought hit him: they were dangling from the easternmost corner of the roof, far from the steps and Kumono Lake. There was no water waiting to catch them—only jagged rocks.

 “Kwang!” Mamoru growled, unable to suppress a note of panic. “For the love of Nami, stop moving!”

If Mamoru had not been so busy shouting, he might have felt the telltale crack of breaking stone beneath his hands.

“Just don’t let go!” Kwang begged.

“I’m not going to let go, but if you don’t stop moving, I _will_ cut this rope and let you fall.”

Kwang uttered a terrified sound, but the threat had the desired effect. Kwang went still, allowing Mamoru to shift his fingers, finding a better grip between the dragon’s teeth. Ignoring the whimpers of fear below him, Mamoru took a deep breath, and started to pull up, his arms straining under the extra weight.

He gathered water and froze it around the fingers of his right hand, just to make sure that it held when he reached out for the roof with his left. Satisfied that his grip would hold, Mamoru removed his left hand and reached... but it was not his iron grip that gave.

The dragon’s jaw broke off in his hand.

“No!” Mamoru made a frantic grab for the edge of the roof, but it was too far, his fingertips slid off—

And both boys plummeted into the mist.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.

_I’m not dying here!_

The thought surged through Mamoru as he and his classmate plunged through open air down the mountainside.  _I am not dying here!_  Not because of a dinma of uncharacteristic clumsiness. Not because a lying outsider had made him lose his temper.

With Matsuda speed, Mamoru seized control of the mist around him, turned it to liquid, and slung a tendril of water upward to latch onto the nearest temple railing. As soon as the water made contact with the wood and stone, Mamoru started to freeze it, but he and Kwang were falling too fast. The tendril wasn’t fully frozen when their weight jerked against it. The ice shattered and they kept falling, plummeting out of reach of the temple.

Dimly, Mamoru realized that Kwang was screaming, but the sound was lost in the roar of the wind as he scrambled for a solution. Twisting his body over in the air, Mamoru found the rope and yanked on it, bringing Kwang in close—a decision he immediately regretted when the screams got closer too, nearly breaking his eardrums. But at least this way he could protect them both at once.

Ignoring Kwang’s shrieks of, “ _Oh Gods! Oh NAMI! AHHHHH! AHHHHH!_ ” Mamoru extended his jiya to sweep the surrounding mist into his control. Holding onto Kwang by the back of his uniform, he threw all the water, ice, and mist he could beneath them. If they were going to hit solid rock, the best he could do was minimize the impact.

The darkness and mist racing past on all sides made it impossible to see where they were falling, so Mamoru closed his eyes. He felt the break in the mist below—condensation-slick rock racing up to meet them terrifyingly fast—but he was faster. Pushing his jiya into action, he just managed to turn his mass of mist and droplets to snow before he and Kwang hit the side of the mountain.

The snow cushion tempered the collision, but the mountain still slammed hard into Mamoru’s body. Tucking into a ball, he rolled with the fall, but they must have hit a steep slope because instead of rolling neatly onto his feet, he just kept tumbling. Rocks battered his spine and shoulders, his limbs tangled with Kwang’s, and the two boys tumbled the last few bounds together before finally crashing into a solid outcropping that brought them to a stop.

Mamoru uncurled onto his back, shaking with shock, his whole skeleton ringing with the echoes of rock against bone. Closing his eyes, he took stock of the damage to his own body. Broken blood vessels pulsed beneath his skin, promising violet bruises. His back and knees were badly scraped and blood seeped from cuts on his forearms, but he was going to be alright. He was alive.

“Kwang-san?” He opened his eyes. “Are you okay?”

The response was a muffled groan. The other boy was alive. That was enough for Mamoru to lie flat on his back for another few moments, getting his breathing under control. He didn’t need his voice and limbs trembling when he rose. When he had calmed his breathing and heart rate, the first thing he did was roll over onto his hands and knees and take stock of their surroundings. They were perched on what seemed to be the only level place on what was otherwise a steep incline. When Mamoru peered over the side of the ledge, he found sheer rock face stretching down into the darkness.

“Is there any way down?” Kwang asked gingerly.

Mamoru wasn’t sure how to answer without causing more panic. “It’s not going to be easy.” He was not even sure what part of the mountain they were on. Turning on the narrow ledge, he scanned the mountainside for something he recognized, but it was hard to see through the darkening mist, and nothing looked familiar. He could have used his jiya to clear some of the surrounding mist, but he doubted it would do much good. There wasn’t enough light left.

“Are we going to die here?” Kwang asked.

“No,” Mamoru said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Worst case scenario: we’ll have to wait for the morning light to find a way down. But we should try to find a way down now, while there’s still twilight.”

“Sorry,” Kwang said. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

“Kwang-san.” Mamoru turned around in exasperation. “I know you’re scared of heights, but—oh... oh no.”

The northern boy was crumpled against a nearby rock. His left forearm was bent the wrong way, broken.

“Sorry.” Mamoru crawled to Kwang, who appeared to be considerably more bruised than he was. “I should have done a better job breaking the fall.”

“I think you did okay,” Kwang said, though his teeth were gritted against what must have been terrible pain and he seemed afraid to move. “We’re alive. I’ve never seen someone materialize that much snow at once. I didn’t know the fierce Kusanagi warriors could make fluffy snow pillows.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Mamoru asked. “Is there any bleeding?”

“I-I don’t think so,” Kwang stammered.

Sensing the distinct drip and flow of blood, Mamoru pulled back the leg of Kwang’s hakama to reveal a deep gouge, where a jutting rock had taken a piece out of his calf. Blood was seeping freely from the injury, dripping down his shin to stain his white tabi.

“Oh!” Kwang squeaked like a girl. “What? How did you—Nami, that looks terrible!”

“It could be worse,” Mamoru said, “but we should stop the bleeding.”

Kwang reached down to wash the wound cleaning with shaking jiya, but Mamoru pushed his hand away.

“I’ll do it. Hold still.” With a wave of his hand, he ran a sheet of water over Kwang’s leg, washing the blood away. Kwang jumped and sucked in a breath through his teeth, but managed not to squirm too much. “This is going to feel weird,” Mamoru warned, putting a hand to the wound before more blood got a chance to seep out. Using his jiya to hold the welling blood in place atop the wound, Mamoru began to draw the moisture from between the iron and carbon molecules, forcing the liquid to thicken and congeal.

“What are you doing?” Kwang demanded, undoubtedly feeling the crawling, needle-like itch that always accompanied accelerated healing.

“I’m creating a temporary scab,” Mamoru replied. “Please hold still.”

Kwang gaped, his pain seemingly forgotten in his astonishment. “You can do that? You can control  _blood_?”

Mamoru’s jaw clenched and he tried to focus more deeply on his work. “A bit.”

“That’s a rare ability!”

“Not in my mother’s family,” Mamoru answered without looking at Kwang. “She’s a Tsusano.”

It was Kaa-chan who had taught Mamoru how to create a makeshift scab.  _For emergencies only,_  she had told him sternly.  _Blood manipulation is not a toy, nor is it something an upstanding Matsuda should flaunt in public._

The lesson had made Mamoru wonder at the extent of Kaa-chan’s abilities, but it would have been rude to ask. Aunt Setsuko had once whispered that his mother could use the Blood Needle—a Tsusano bloodline technique wherein the jijaka froze a drop of their own blood into a needle thin and sharp enough to pierce human skin without detection. But Mamoru’s jovial aunt could easily have been joking just to scare him; she liked to do that.

And local lore had no shortage of horror stories about Tsusano blood manipulation. There were chilling tales of Tsusano jijakalu so adept at controlling blood that they could manipulate the fluid in the bodies of other humans, using them as puppets. Unlike the Whispering Blade, Tsusano Blood Puppeteers were nothing more than a legend; no living Tsusano could attest to their existence. But it made for a good story to scare children.

“That’s amazing!” Kwang marveled as Mamoru withdrew his hands from the gash to reveal a thin red scab.

“Don’t touch it,” Mamoru said sharply before Kwang got a chance to prod at his work. “It’s no substitute for natural healing; it won’t hold under stress. And if you could... please don’t mention this to anyone else.” The ability was frowned on within the Matsuda family. Blood, after all, was impure.

“Why not?” Kwang asked tactlessly.

“It’s not... it’s not an ability that a Matsuda should have,” Mamoru said shortly.

According to Mamoru’s father, it was the reason Mamoru couldn’t master the Whispering Blade. When a true Matsuda drew water from his surroundings, it was pure. The master Matsuda formed his weapon by compressing several billion water molecules to a thin blade through sheer force of nyama, creating ice as hard as metal and an edge the width of a single water molecule. Mamoru always managed to catch other things up in his water—some iron particles, some dirt, some salt, some air bubbles—that weakened his ice and caused it to shatter under the pressure.

“Just don’t tell the other boys at school.”

Kwang looked confused, but agreed. “Okay, I won’t.”

Sitting back on his knees, Mamoru looked Kwang over. The broken arm needed to be set properly before his theonite body started to heal, the makeshift scab might not hold, and Kwang could have internal bruising that needed a healer’s attention. Mamoru sighed.

“This can’t wait until morning,” he decided. “The moon then.”

“What?”

“We’ll wait until the moon is high. It’s nearly full. It should cast enough light for us to... well, for me to carry you down the mountain.”

“We can’t just call an ambulance?” Kwang asked.

The question actually made Mamoru laugh aloud. “Takayubi doesn’t have an ambulance.”

“Okay—but there must be a hospital, right?” Kwang said anxiously. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“The medicine men live in the western village.”

“Not medicine men!” Kwang growled, his pain manifesting in irritation. “I mean a  _real_  hospital, with real medical equipment and vehicles and stuff.”

“Too far,” Mamoru said, “at the base of the mountain. And even if it were close, what difference would it make? No ambulance could reach us here.”

Kwang made a miserable noise. “You know how many different schools I’ve gone to? Like twelve. And you know what? This is the worst first day of school I’ve ever had. Ever.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Mamoru said. “I’m going to get us down.”

In his head, he tried to plot out their position on the mountain. They had fallen from the eastern side of the temple, meaning they had to be somewhere east of the lake. It wasn’t a part of the mountain Mamoru had ever been before; there were no footpaths, and the steep rocks made climbing too risky for even a foolhardy adventurer. The slope they were perched on now was so steep that they probably would have gone right on rolling down the mountainside to their deaths if not for this bizarrely jutting rock formation... which now that Mamoru was paying attention did not feel much like rock at all. It was too perfect in its flatness. Too hard and shiny.

“What  _is_  this thing anyway?” Kwang gave voice to Mamoru’s thoughts.

Kwang, who had fallen with his whole body against the smooth surface, pushed himself up with his good arm and ran a hand over the strange formation. Standing, Mamoru stepped back as far as the ledge would allow to survey the shape. It was darker than the rest of the mountainside, like a deep shadow behind Kwang. A flattened piece protruded from the body of the shadow, like a fin... or a wing?

“It’s a plane!” Kwang exclaimed, just as the same realization dawned on Mamoru—and a smile lit his face.

“Oh!” Mamoru clapped his hands together as the pieces slid together on his mental map. “I know where we are!”

“What?”

“This is the black plane wreck,” he explained. “It’s been here forever. You can see it from the lower steps when you look across the lake, which means we must be close to the water.” Relief coursed through Mamoru. The climb would be manageable after all.

“Oh,” Kwang looked from Mamoru to the plane halfway buried in the mountainside. “So, this has been here for a long time?”

“Yeah.” Mamoru remembered the first clear morning Yuuta had pointed it out—a smudge of dark metal lodged in the slope on the far side of the lake. “It was here before Kumono became a school.” His father and uncle had mentioned seeing the plane when they climbed the steps as boys.

“Wait, so...  _how_  did it get here?” Kwang asked, squinting in confusion.

“It crashed during a military exercise, back when the Empire had troops in training here.” That was what Hibiki Sensei had told Yuuta when he asked. “The government was testing out some unmanned stealth aircraft. There was some kind of malfunction with this one, its engines failed, so they steered it into an uninhabited part of the mountain to crash.”

“Really...?” Kwang reached out to touch the plane with the fingers of his good hand, his brow furrowed. “So that would have been when?”

“During the Keleba.” The Great War was the last time the government had maintained any military presence in Shirojima.

Kwang was running his hand in slow circles over the body of the plane, as though searching it for something. “Matsuda-san...” His voice had grown quiet and strained. “I don’t know how to tell you this... This isn’t a Kaigenese plane.”

“What?” Mamoru let out an incredulous laugh, even as dread pulled at something dark and weak inside him. “Of course it is!”  _Of course it was._ “Where else could it have come from?”

Kwang shook his head, looking apologetic, almost afraid. “It’s Yammanka.”

“Why would you say that?” And damn Kwang, Mamoru couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice! “Why would you say that!?”

Now Kwang was definitely afraid, but that didn’t stop him from explaining, “Kaigenese planes are made of metal. This isn’t metal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mamoru crossed to the plane in two angry strides. “Of course it’s made of...” But when his fingers touched the body of the plane, the words stopped in his throat. No metal was that smooth. “What... what is this?”

“Zilazen glass,” Kwang said.

“What?”

“Zilazen glass,” Kwang repeated. “Yammanka obsidian, the hardest material in the world.”

“You’re not a craftsman,” Mamoru said in desperate indignation. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Just look.” Kwang put a hand against the plane and painstakingly stood to point to where its nose had rammed into the mountain. “This jet crashed here and didn’t break. It went straight into the side of the mountain and there isn’t even a crack in it.” And now that Mamoru looked, Kwang was right; the plane’s exterior couldn’t have been smoother if it were manufactured yesterday. Even the purest Kotetsu steel didn’t have that kind of durability. “Only Zilazen glass could do that.”

Mamoru’s fingers curled against the shell of the plane.

“No,” he breathed. “You’re lying.” This wasn’t a Yammanka plane. It wasn’t Zilazen glass. “You’re lying.” He would prove it.

Mamoru dug his hands into the side of the plane until he felt his fingernails threatening to break, then dragged them down, trying to scratch the allegedly impervious glass. But even as Mamoru’s nails bent and broke, he couldn’t leave the tiniest mark on the plane. The surface was so perfect that in the weakening twilight, Mamoru could see his own face reflected in the blackness. Troubled. Frantic. The face of a lost child, not a warrior.

“I’m not lying,” Kwang said quietly. “You could take all the swords in Kaigen to that glass, and you wouldn’t be able to scratch it.”

“Shut up!” Mamoru snarled, hating the fear in his voice. He would  _make_  Kwang shut up. Like he had back in the school yard. He would break through this black glass and prove him a liar, and this would all be over. Mamoru drew an arm back, and punched the side of the plane with all his strength. A spear of pain slammed through his arm, but he didn’t slow down. He struck again and again, in a rain of blows that would have dented any metal. Mamoru’s hands could break steel. But the only things that broke were the skin and blood vessels on his knuckles.

“Matsuda-san, stop! Stop!” Kwang begged, though he didn’t seem willing to put himself in range of those fists a second time. “You’ll break your hand! I’m telling you, that’s the hardest glass in the—”

“No,” Mamoru growled through gritted teeth. “No, it’s  _not_!

Drawing his fist back, he froze blood and mist into the hardest ice he could form across his knuckles and punched again. The ice broke, sending a shockwave of pain through his hand. The plane’s shining black exterior was not even scratched. But Mamoru was shattered.

A waati earlier, Kwang’s assertions had been just words—words and a few holographic images. Those could be faked and made up. Now a piece of his story was right in front of Mamoru. It was Zilazen glass, harder than his own ice. Unbreakable. Irrefutable.

“Matsuda-san.” Kwang’s voice would have sounded gentle, if the words he spoke weren’t like twisting knives. “Just look at it. Have you ever seen a Kaigenese jet this shape?”

Mamoru wished he couldn’t hear the words—tried not to hear them—but the plane was right in front of him. And Kwang was right; it looked nothing like any jet he had ever seen thunder overhead, nor any plane in the Kaigenese military pride films. It took him a moment to realize where he had seen this type of jet before: in the form of an obsidian memorial statue, with a proud woman pilot beside it.  _A pilot..._

In a desperate lurch, Mamoru was scrambling up onto the tilted wing of the plane.

“What are you doing?” Kwang demanded, trying and failing to hold the stronger boy back with his one good arm. “Be careful, Matsuda-san! You don’t know how stable that is!”

Hibiki Sensei had said that the black plane was part of Kaigenese forays into unmanned jets during the Keleba. Mamoru could confirm that it was the truth. If he climbed onto the top of the plane and there was no pilot’s seat, he could ignore everything Kwang had said. He could lay this all to rest. He could—

The hope died as he reached the top of the plane and found a raised cockpit before him. While the body of the plane was as black as cooled coals, the cockpit glass was as clear as if it had been cleaned yesterday. Mamoru should have stopped there. He should not have crawled forward to peer through the perfect glass.

But he looked—and his whole body stiffened. The blood fled his cheeks, leaving him as pale as the face before him—if one could call it a face. All that remained of the pilot was a jumble of white bones. The shreds of fabric clinging to the warrior’s ribcage were too deteriorated to identify as any kind of military uniform. The skin, whether it had been snow white or deep brown, had decayed from the bones a long time ago.

Mamoru’s first impulse should have been to start back from the human remains. But he was frozen, trapped in the emptiness of those sockets, where once there had been a pilot’s sharp eyes.

“Matsuda-san? What is it?” Kwang made as though to climb up to look into the cockpit too, but Mamoru shook his head. The look on his face must have said everything, because Kwang stopped.

“Is it bad?” he asked quietly.

“Just... don’t look,” Mamoru said, though he himself couldn’t take his eyes off the skeleton before him. “Don’t look.”

Pilots were young people with keen eyesight and quick reflexes, skilled enough to maneuver a machine many times the speed of a human, brave enough to battle from the sky. And this young fighter had been left to rot here with no grave, no memorial, no one to remember them. Until wind and rain had washed away their face, their skin, their uniform, any indicator of who they were and what they fought for.

Mamoru looked into the sockets and wondered if the pilot had had black eyes like his. Would his face look the same stripped of all its skin? Would the mountain wash him away as easily?

He put his hand to the cockpit glass and let his fingers trail down until they ran over a series of fine grooves in the glass. Turning his attention to the shapes beneath his fingertips, Mamoru saw that the cockpit was lined with Falleya symbols of strength and protection. And among the symbols, in Yammaninke letters, was an inscription.

“ _N... nyama du-gu la,”_ Mamoru read out slowly.  _“N’nyama ga-na la_.” He turned to Kwang, unable to keep his voice from shaking. “What does it mean?”

“ _N’nyama dugu la. N’nyama gana la_?” Kwang repeated the words with the musical ease of a native speaker. “ _My nyama for my country. My nyama for my king_.”

The strength went out of Mamoru’s limbs. Involuntarily, he found himself crumpling—in something like a bow, something like pain—until he felt his forehead clunk against the clear glass of the cockpit. It had been decades since this plane hit the mountainside, yet Mamoru could feel it crashing through everything he knew, scattering the broken pieces to the elements.

It didn’t seem to matter whether the skeleton belonged to a man or a woman—a Kaigenese pilot or a Yammanka one. A warrior had died here. And Hibiki Sensei had lied about it.  _The whole village_  had lied about it.

Mamoru’s nyama seethed with something different from anger, different from hurt. It was utter disorientation. The force of his world falling apart churned the mist. Condensation writhed and slithered over the rocks.

“Matsuda?” Kwang said as the blood rose from his skin, pulled into the whirl of Mamoru’s jiya. He looked on nervously—until Mamoru’s turmoil tugged at the blood inside his open wounds. “Ow!  _Hey_!”

The shout of pain was enough to yank Mamoru out of his confusion.

His head jerked up. A sharp gasp brought the mountainside back into focus. With a few measured breaths, he managed to bring his jiya under control. He was far from stable ice, but he managed to release the water particles around him, including those in Kwang’s blood.

“Ow...” Kwang repeated, looking on in a mixture of wonder and horror as his own blood settled back onto his skin in a sticky mess. The wound in his calf was bleeding again, worse than before.

“Sorry,” Mamoru breathed, his hands shaking. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll fix it.”

Jerkily, he climbed down from the plane and folded to his knees to tend to Kwang’s leg. He tried to find solace in his own jiya, repairing the broken scab. But his control had fled him, his jiya scattering out of his grasp.

“Ow!” Kwang pulled his leg back as Mamoru’s third attempt to repair the scab only made the bleeding worse.

“Sorry,” Mamoru repeated in a weak voice that didn’t seem to belong to him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kwang said, though he had put a hand over the wound, silently refusing Mamoru’s help. “I’ll just cut off part of my sleeve and tie it.”

Mamoru nodded and tried to laugh it off. “I guess I’m not as good with blood as I thought.”

“That’s fine with me.” Kwang gave Mamoru a strained smile. “I don’t want to wake up one day to find you using me as a puppet.”

“That’s not—” Mamoru shook his head, barely able to focus on Kwang’s words. “Blood Puppeteering isn’t real. It’s just a myth.”

“Well... I thought  _all_  the rumors about the Shirojima warriors were just myths, but you island people are more powerful than I thought.” Kwang pressed his lips together and stared at Mamoru with a strange expression—something guilty and pitying that made Mamoru want to retch. “Maybe there  _is_  some truth to what your history teacher told you. Maybe—”

“Don’t,” Mamoru whispered.

“What?”

“Just don’t...” His voice was strained. “Don’t speak to me.” He was one slip-up away from losing his tenuous grip on his jiya all over again. Stiffly, he turned away from Kwang and the cursed glass plane. “I’m going to meditate.”

It was the only thing he could think of to do.

His sheer exhaustion helped. Often Mamoru could meditate better when he was drained, near sleep, when the whole world melted away except for the power of his own jiya. Mamoru retreated deep into his own mind until Kwang disappeared. The plane and its pilot disappeared. The rock disappeared. The only thing left in the world was pure water—clear as daylight and clean as polished steel. Deep in his trance, Mamoru could feel the outline of the mountain, coated in a sheen of condensation.

He followed the mist and condensation, sinking and trickling gently downward until he could feel the heavy ripple of liquid water—the Kumono Lake. Its weight eased a slow breath from Mamoru’s body, relaxing his muscles. He settled into the embrace of the lake and nestled there for a long time, swirling with the spring water. Then, when it was time, gravity drew him to the biggest of the lake’s outgoing streams, and he slid into it.

The stream carried him down the mountain, through the dewy grasses of the western village, until it splayed its fingers over the rocks around the finawu’s temple, becoming many streams, all flowing down, down, until they met the salty weight of the ocean—the primordial power that had given birth to Kaigen, humanity, and life itself. Here, even things as fleeting as mountain streams became part of eternity. Here, there was a truth that ebbed and shifted but never died. Here, he was home.

Rooted in the depths, he felt the moon rise. Drawn to the irresistible lure of Nami’s mirror, he rose, lifting fishing boats at their moorings. Tide pools filled up all the way down the coast, silver as dragon scales under the full moon, little mirrors to answer her brightness.

He opened his eyes to the sight he knew he would find—Nami’s mirror held high in the sky, pure light that pierced the realms of past and present. Breathing out, he was Mamoru again, but more. Whole.

“The tide pools are full,” he said without emotion. “It’s time.”

“What?” Kwang started upright from where he had been dozing against the side of the plane. “Time for what?”

Mamoru nodded toward the sky. “That’s all the moonlight we’re going to get. Don’t worry. We don’t have far to go.”

“F-far to where?” Kwang mumbled, still half asleep.

“The Kumono Lake. It’s just ten or so bounds below us.”

“Are you sure?” Kwang asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Well, ten bounds is a long way to sense clearly.”

Still attuned to the water all around him, Mamoru couldn’t help a human smile of amusement. “Not for me.”

“Fine. But I swear to Nami, if there are more rocks down there, and we jump, my ghost is going to haunt your ghost to the end of the Laaxara.”

“We’re not going to jump.” Mamoru wouldn’t admit it, but he didn’t think he had the nerve for any more freefalling through the darkness—no matter how clearly he could sense the water below. “You’re going to get on my back and I’m going to climb down.”

“I don’t know if I can hold on with just one arm.”

“Good thing we have a rope.”

Mamoru had never tried scaling a sheer cliff face, but his mother had once told him that it was easy to climb smooth walls with only ice if your jiya was strong and your technique was right. How a housewife like Kaa-chan knew how to scale walls, Mamoru had no idea, but she turned out to be right. Recalling her instructions, he formed a disc of water around each hand and then turned the water to ice, freezing his hands to the rock. To descend, all he had to do was melt the ice beneath one hand enough to shift it down, refreeze it, and then repeat the process with the opposite hand.

A weaker jijaka might risk the ice breaking from the flat surface, but Mamoru’s jiya was easily strong enough to secure him to the mountain—even with a nervous Kwang tied to his back. Hand under hand, he lowered himself and his classmate down the cliff side.

The mist grew thicker as they neared the lake, coiling tendrils reaching from the water’s surface to wrap around them, smothering the moonlight. Visibility grew steadily worse as they descended, and Mamoru had to rely on his jiya to feel his way down the last few bounds to the water.

“Okay, so what’s your plan now?” Kwang asked as he too sensed the lake beneath them. “I don’t know if I can swim that far with one arm.”

“You won’t have to.” Mamoru was already at work, freezing the lake water directly beneath them, forming a broad shape.

When he lowered them to the lake, their feet touched the bottom of a boat made of sturdy, buoyant ice.

“Oh,” Kwang said in surprise, and looked appreciatively at the sleek vessel. “Well done, Matsuda-san. It would take me a whole gbaati to form a boat this nice.”

“Sit,” Mamoru said, lowering himself to his knees. The boat wasn’t perfectly balanced; it would capsize if either of them stood and moved around too much.

“Okay.” Kwang gingerly arranged his damaged body into a sitting position opposite Mamoru. “Do you need me to help propel or—”

“No,” Mamoru said, and with a sweep of his hand set them gliding quickly over the lake’s surface. “You don’t know where we’re going.”

People whispered that the moonlit curls of mist on the lake were ghosts from the next world, striding their silvery way over the water’s surface. But Mamoru had never feared them. The people who had lived and died here in times past were Matsudas and Yukinos. They were family.

Tonight, for the first time, they seemed like strangers.

This was the first time he had had to look at the wisps of the past and wonder what they were really. Were they the ancestors he had always imagined, or something entirely different? Had they fought in battles the rest of the world had covered up and forgotten? Had their lifeblood stained these waters before it was washed to the sea? If so, they must resent the living for washing away the memory of their sacrifice as easily as some blood down the river.

The finawu at the temple said that spirits only ever remained bound to the Realm of the Duna unwillingly—trapped there by bitterness, regret, or simple spite. Was there anger in the silvery tendrils crowding around Mamoru? Did they resent him for his ignorance?

Or was it his treasonous thoughts that had turned them sinister? Maybe, somehow, Kwang had really tricked him. A liar had made him doubt his family, his village, and everything he had been taught. Now his ancestors, stung with the insult, had come seething out of the Laaxara to drag him away. Either way, the spirits here had every reason to be furious with him.

Shadows wavered through the fog and Mamoru found himself pressing closer to Kwang.

“What is it?” the other boy asked, oblivious to the otherworldly presence.

“Nothing.” Mamoru raised a hand, dispersing the mist before the keel, pushing aside any ghostly faces waiting in the darkness ahead. “It’s nothing.”

Mamoru managed to keep himself calm across the remainder of the lake, but he still let out a breath of relief when their vessel bumped the shore and the two stepped off onto solid ground. His shoulders tense, Mamoru realized he was too afraid to turn and look back at the lake.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kwang asked, peering at Mamoru’s face in the low light.

“Of course I’m okay,” Mamoru said, doing his best to adopt an icy tone. “You’re the one with a broken limb. Come on.” He took hold of Kwang’s uninjured arm with both hands. “Stay close. I know the path here, but it’s steep and uneven. I don’t want you to fall and break any more bones.”

It was a good excuse. But at that moment, it was Mamoru who really needed a living thing to hold onto.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a map of Planet Duna, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.

Mamoru didn’t instinctively know his way around this part of the mountain the way he did the steps, but he had deliberately brought their boat ashore near the wide stream that ran from Kumono Lake. He knew that if they followed the water without losing their footing, it would take them to help. Frogs chanted and dewdrops brushed their ankles as they waded into the grass alongside the stream. The fireflies bobbing along the bank didn’t do much to light the way, but between the dewdrops and the running water, Mamoru was able to keep them on course without the use of his eyes.

“How much further?” Kwang asked and Mamoru could hear the fatigue in his voice.

“We’re almost there. Look.” He pointed down the mountain, where a red-orange glow had appeared over a rocky ridge.

“What’s that?”

“Forge fire,” Mamoru said, allowing himself a smile of relief. “We’ve reached the numu village.”

“The what?”

“The numu village. You know, where the sword-smiths live.”

“ _That’s_  where you’re taking me?” Kwang said, eyes wide and fearful in the firelight.

“They’re knowledgeable healers,” Mamoru said, “the best we’re going to find at this time of night. They’ll know what to do about your arm.”

Kwang was still eyeing the fire like it might leap over the ridge and bite him, but the numu village was like a second home to Mamoru. His father sent him here for a few months each year to apprentice with the Kotetsu sword smiths. In most of Kaigen, it was considered atypical—unclean even—for a koro to train in numu arts, but the Matsudas had a special relationship with their Kotetsu neighbors.

Takayubi’s numu community wasn’t as much a village as it was a large cluster of houses nestled on a rocky shelf alongside the Kumono stream. As Mamoru led Kwang onto the main path down toward the firelight, they were greeted by the sound of hammers, ringing like a hundred temple bells, pounding the impurities from metal. While the rest of the mountain slept, the smiths worked through the cool of the night when the forge heat was more bearable.

“I didn’t realize numu villages like this even existed anymore,” Kwang said as the air around them warmed. “Aren’t there, like, machines that can do their work for them now?”

“If there were machines that could improve their work, that’s what they would be using,” Mamoru said. “The Kotetsu family are the best swordsmiths in the world.”

“If their swords are the best in the world, how come they’re still here?” Kwang challenged. “Why don’t they go get jobs arming the Kaigenese military?”

“Some of them have,” Mamoru said. In his grandfather’s day, the Kotetsu village had been twice its current size. “A lot of the Takayubi blacksmiths moved north to the cities to go into manufacturing. But the best ones stayed here.”

“And they make a living on this?” Kwang said incredulously. “How many swords can you even make per month working out of a fire pit?”

“Three,” Mamoru said, “when they’re in a rush.”

“Wait, what?” Kwang said. “Only three? And that’s all they do? Who even sponsors that?”

“We do,” Mamoru said. “They’re still here because the military can’t afford them; we pay them what they’re worth.”

Truthfully, the Matsuda family currently  _couldn’t_  pay them what they were worth. Mamoru’s last two-month apprenticeship with the Kotetsus hadn’t been training as much as it had been paying off the Matsuda family’s last sword order.

“Any one of those swords is worth a whole house.” The Yukino family had actually sold one of their old castles to cover the cost of the last few swords they had ordered.

By this time, Mamoru and Kwang had reached the broad, foot-stamped path that ran the length of the village. While the rest of the mountain slept in the cool moonlight, the numu settlement was alive with the yellow-orange glow of torches. There was firelight here that never went out. No matter the hour of night, there was almost someone at work.

Kwang hesitated, and Mamoru had to coax him on down the main path. His reaction wasn’t unusual; most koronu harbored a healthy fear of the numu’s fiery domain. But Mamoru had walked here enough that he no longer feared the heat.

He did, however, feel a wave of prickling guilt overtake him like flames over kindling. For all his months of training here, he hadn’t been able to translate the arts of steel into ice. The sound of hammers sharpened and each ring stung, reminding Mamoru of his own efforts to create a blade—all his impurities.

They hadn’t gone far down the path when Mamoru caught sight of figure moving in the firelight. The head swordsmith’s son, carrying a towering bundle of firewood.

“Atsushi!” Mamoru called out to his friend.

The young numu paused, looked up, and smiled.

“Mamo—Matsuda-dono!” Atsushi caught himself, remembering his manners.

When the two were children, they had gotten away with calling each other by their given names. But now that they were both young men, Atsushi had to remember to address the son of his patron house with the appropriate respect. He fumbled with his load for a moment before depositing the bundle of firewood on the ground and bowing low.

“Welcome—I’m so sorry. We weren’t expecting you.” He glanced up at Mamoru. “What... what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry to trouble you and your family,” Mamoru said. “We have a situation—”

“You’re hurt!” Atsushi exclaimed, catching sight of the blood on Mamoru’s knuckles.

“I’m fine,” Mamoru said hastily, “but my classmate needs medical attention. I’m sorry to ask you—”

“I’ll get my father right away.” Atsushi raced off to the house before Mamoru could thank him, his firewood forgotten in the dirt.

“So, who was that?” Kwang asked.

“Kotetsu Atsushi is the head swordsmith’s son,” Mamoru said, stooping to gather the wood Atsushi had dropped. “I’ve been apprenticing alongside him since we were young.”

“You—wait, you what?”

Before Mamoru could explain, a woman stuck her head out of the house and called, “Matsuda-dono, you silly boy, put that down!”

“It’s no trouble, Kotetsu-san,” Mamoru said. “I can—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The blacksmith’s wife exclaimed. “My son will get it. You and your friend, come inside.”

When Mamoru and Kwang entered the house, Kotetsu’s wife was at the stove, cooking, while his elderly mother dozed in a chair. The little children were nowhere to be seen, probably in bed. As grimy as the streets and structures of the numu village appeared from the outside, the inside of the Kotetsus’ modest house was always immaculate. Mamoru had just finished introducing Kwang to Kotetsu’s wife and thanking her once again when Kotetsu himself stepped in through the back door, cleaning his soot-stained hands on a rag.

The swordsmith was a mountain of a man. His arms writhed with hard cables of muscle and his shoulders had a way of filling up a doorway. He made an intimidating picture when he swung his hammer, his eyes furious with focus. But away from the forge, he had a warm voice and gentle smile that could put the most skittish of people at ease. It was that smile that greeted Mamoru now, wide and bright beneath the black smudges.

“Kotetsu Kama, good evening,” Mamoru greeted his teacher. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“Ah, it’s fine, little Matsuda-dono.” Kotetsu waved him off. “Atsushi-kun can mind the fires for a gbaati. Let me wash up and I’ll have a look at your friend. In the meantime, you two can have a seat in the kitchen. My wife will have tea and food ready for you in a moment.”

“Kotetsu Kama, please, that isn’t necessary,” Mamoru protested. “We don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense, Matsuda-dono. You’re not imposing. This is your house, as it is ours.”

“We don’t need to eat your food—”

“And what will I tell my Lord Matsuda? That I sent his injured son away with an empty stomach? You’ll stay for dinner,” Kotetsu said with a note of finality that shut Mamoru up.

“Thank you, Kotetsu Kama,” he said with another bow.

Kwang bowed too, murmuring his own quiet, “Thank you.”

When the swordsmith had gone, Kwang turned to Mamoru with a look of surprise.

“You call him ‘Kama’?” he said in a low voice. Mamoru could understand his confusion; the honorific was usually used by a servant or apprentice to address his master. It wasn’t a title the average Kaigenese koro would use to address a soot-stained numu. “I thought you were from a high warrior house.”

“I am,” Mamoru said. “That’s why I owe him my respect.”

“I don’t—what does that mean?” Kwang whispered as he followed Mamoru into the Kotetsus’ kitchen.

“My family has a special relationship with the Kotetsus. You wouldn’t understand—”

“Of course the boy does not understand,” an impatient voice croaked and Mamoru jumped, realizing that it had come from Kotetsu’s mother. He hadn’t known that the wrinkled old woman was awake. “How could he understand? He is an outsider.” The bent woman leaned forward in her chair, her clouded eyes narrowing. “I may not be able to see anymore, but I know every speck of nyama on this mountain. And you, boy, weren’t born here. You blew in from someplace far away, didn’t you?”

Kwang only seemed to be able to stare open-mouthed at the old numu.

“Something wrong with you, boy?” Kotetsu’s mother snapped. “I thought it was your arm that broke, not your tongue.”

“S-sorry, numuba,” Kwang stuttered.

“ _Numuba_?” Grandma Kotetsu cackled at the Yammaninke honorific. “He speaks like he’s from far away too. Mamoru-kun.” The woman’s sightless eyes didn’t move but she tilted her head fondly in Mamoru’s direction. “You can’t expect a city boy like him to understand our ways, no matter how you try to explain. We’re just an oddity to him. A myth. A silly fantasy from far in the past.”

“I never said—”

“Please sit, Kwang-san,” Kotetsu’s wife said kindly. “Matsuda-dono, you too. Have some tea.”

She poured them each a piping hot cup of tea before hurrying to set food on the table. Mamoru pulled some water from the air and did his best not to grimace as he used it to clean his hands. His knuckles were still oozing blood, despite the makeshift scabs he had formed over them. The water stung. He could feel Kwang’s eyes on him as he cast the water back into the air around him, and did his best to keep his eyes down.

“Our koro is troubled,” Grandma Kotetsu muttered—it almost seemed, to herself. “His jiya could swirl up and drown him.”

Mamoru pretended not to hear and took a drink out of his teacup. The bitter caffeine should have reinvigorated him. Instead, the heat seemed to seep into his bones, softening him like ice above a flame.

“Now then,” Kotetsu said, re-emerging from the back room. “I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself.” He turned to Kwang with a bow. “I’m Numu Kotetsu Katashi.”

“I’m Kwang Chul-hee.” Kwang hurried to stand and bow. “Nice to meet—”

“Sit, sit,” Kotetsu chuckled, putting a hand on Kwang’s shoulder to ease him down. “You look like a proper mess. No need to strain yourself. Let’s have a look at that arm.”

“He’s also got some bad bleeding from his leg,” Mamoru said. “I tried to make a scab, but it’s—”

“Hush, little Matsuda,” Grandma Kotetsu said in her creaky voice. “Let the numu do his job.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“Here.” Kotetsu’s wife spooned some rice into a bowl and held it out to Mamoru. “Eat.”

“Thank you.” It was only when Mamoru reached out to accept the bowl that the light fell on his hands. The woman’s eyes flicked to his knuckles and then to his face, filled with concern.

“Matsuda-dono… What did you and your classmate get into?”

“I…” Mamoru started, but before he could finish, Grandma Kotetsu interrupted with a reproachful click of her tongue.

“Leave koro business to the koronu, daughter. If these boys went and got bloody, it’s their business.”

“Right,” Kotetsu’s wife said demurely, though the concern didn’t leave her face. “I’m sorry.”

“So...” Mamoru quickly cast around for a different topic of conversation. “The little ones are all doing well?” He nodded to the back room, where he assumed the Kotetsus’ three youngest children were sleeping.

“Yes,” Kotetsu’s wife said with a smile. “You’ll have to visit some time they’re all awake. They get so excited whenever you come around.”

On the other side of the room, Kotetsu Kama had set about tying a splint around Kwang’s arm.

“Relax,” the smith rumbled. “I know a city boy like you is probably used to brightly-lit clinics with lots of fancy equipment, but there’s no need to be worried. I know what I’m doing.”

Kwang swallowed and nodded.

“How did you end up in a little village like ours anyway?”

“My father works for—ahh!” Kwang winced. “Sorry. My father works for Geomijul.”

“For what?”

“Geomijul. It’s a communications company that specializes in info-com devices.”

“So, he’s a travelling electronics salesman?”

“Not exactly. His job is to set up the infrastructure places need to use info-com devices. I guess someone in this area agreed to pay for Geomijul to install satellite towers here, so you guys can get better reception with your info-com devices. He’s here to oversee that.”

“Does your father know that barely anyone here has info-com devices?” Kotetsu asked.

“Well, the company is hoping they’ll sell better after the infrastructure is in place for them to actually work. I know he said something about speaking to the local craftsmen about enlisting their help. He hasn’t gotten a chance to do much yet, but I’m sure he’ll come here soon looking to hire some numuwu. I know building info-com towers isn’t exactly your specialty, so if you guys don’t want to do it, I can let him know—”

“On the contrary, it sounds wonderful. I’ll send Atsushi.”

”What? Really?”

“Oh, yes. A young numu should learn about new technologies. For an old man like me, that sort of thing is hard, but for a growing mind, it is essential. Young Matsuda-dono is a fair metalworker himself,” Kotetsu said with a smile at Mamoru. “If his father allows it, he might be able to help you too.”

“Right.” Kwang looked from Mamoru to Kotetsu Kama in confusion. “So, Matsuda-san says he... apprentices with you?”

“I know it seems strange,” Kotetsu said. “But it’s a tradition that predates modern Kaigenese society.”

“But... why? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story. Please hold still, Kwang-san.”

There was a creak as Grandma Kotetsu leaned forward. “A thousand years ago,” she began, “long before metal was ever spun into conductive wires and space-going satellites, the most coveted metal in Kaigen was made by a small family of blacksmiths living here in Takayubi. Their surpassing skill in forging tools and weapons earned them the name Kotetsu, which means ‘steel’ in Shirojima dialect. Though the laws of kafonu and kamaya had not yet come to Kaigen, this blacksmith family had an informal relationship of patronage with the noble house of Matsuda. The Kotetsu smiths subsisted on the generosity of the Matsuda warriors, who paid good money for their superior swords.

“At this time, the Matsudas were masters of making blades from ice. While these early ice blades were rough, the fighting style served them well. Using their ice to fight long range battles, and their Kotetsu-forged steel to fight at close range, they dominated western Shirojima.”

Kwang was looking at Grandma Kotetsu in confusion, but he seemed too intrigued to interrupt.

“Then, at the height of the Matsuda family’s reign, Falleya missionaries came to these shores en masse. Some came from the mainland, some came from Disa, some came from as far away as the Empire of Yamma. These missionary singers brought with them new technologies and new ways of looking at the world. Many people of Shirojima embraced the new religion, eagerly integrating it into their lives, including the Matsudas’ nearest neighbor, the Yukino clan.

“But the Matsuda patriarch at the time, a man by the name of Matsuda Katsuki, openly rejected Falleya, going as far as to send his men to behead missionaries and converts in the streets. In retaliation, a Falleya army, led by Lord Yukino Izumi, laid siege to the Matsuda castle and razed it to the ground. The Matsudas who did not die in battle burned to death in the inferno... all except one. This was the Lord’s youngest son, Matsuda Takeru, for whom this boy’s father is named.” She nodded her head at Mamoru. “As the flames rose around the room where he slept, his mother wrapped him in an embrace of water and ice. The fire consumed wood, flesh, and bone around them, but her love protected him. When the sun rose the next day, the woman was dead, having finally succumbed to the heat. But in her arms, the child Takeru had survived.”

Mamoru was still, his stinging hands resting in his lap. He had heard the story of Matsuda Takeru a dozen times. When he was very young, the razing of the Matsuda castle used to move him to tears. Now he had to look at his bloodied knuckles and wonder if the story was even true. It made him feel hollow.

“The Falleya army did their best to kill every fighter they found in the castle and the surrounding houses,” Grandma Kotetsu continued, “but the resident family of Kotetsu blacksmiths were spared, their precious forges left intact. For under Falleya, it is a sin to commit violence against a craftsman.”

Kwang nodded. Having lived in Yamma, he would understand that.

“It was a Kotetsu man named Toki who picked his way through the ashes when the smoke cleared. It was Toki who found the young Takeru in the ashes and gently helped him to his feet. By this time, Yukino Izumi had proclaimed himself ruler of the region, and Toki knew that if the boy were discovered, he would be killed. So, he took Takeru in and raised him as one of his own sons. And this act—this solitary act of kindness—altered the destinies of the Matsuda family, the Kotetsu family, and all of Shirojima.

“Hiding under a false name, young Takeru was raised to adolescence in Kotetsu Toki’s household, under the rule of Yukino Izumi’s Falleya state. As Takeru grew, he proved himself a genius. Despite what had happened to his family, he was able to listen to the missionary finawu and learn the value of Falleya. Despite his warrior’s blood, he took to the forge like a natural numu, creating swords of excellent quality and incredible beauty. But in his heart, he knew it was his duty to avenge his family and continue the Matsuda lineage. So, as a young man, he set out in disguise to train with the jiya swordsmen of the Tsusano and Ginkawa clans, further north. No one knows exactly where he went during that time or who trained him, though many tried to claim credit after the fact. But it is the story of his return, years later, that propelled him into legend…”

Grandma Kotetsu trailed off, nodding to herself.

“So…” Kwang prompted after a moment. “What happened?”

“Oh, you want me to continue?” Grandma Kotetsu said in amusement. “I thought you might be done with this old lady’s foolish story.”

“No, please,” Kwang said emphatically. “You have to keep going.”

“Very well, city boy.” Grandma Kotetsu chuckled. “Takeru walked through the town gates with no weapon, only a pack on his back, and announced himself for all to hear: “I am Matsuda Takeru, Lord of Takayubi. I am here to take back my family’s home.” Upon hearing this, the town guards seized him and brought him before Lord Yukino Izumi.

In Yukino’s hall, Takeru faced his family’s killer for the first time, and repeated his challenge.

Yukino Izumi was unimpressed. “You claim to be Matsuda Takeru, son of Matsuda Katsuki,” he said, “but I know that all the Matsudas were killed years ago. This makes you both a liar and a traitor. I have no obligation to accept your challenge. You will be executed.”

“Then I offer you a compromise,” said Takeru. “I will face you unarmed.”

“Unarmed!” Yukino laughed. “You believe you can kill me without a sword?”

“I do,” Takeru said calmly.

“If you are so confident in your skills,” Yukino said, “then why not kill me now?”

Takeru looked around him and replied, “I prefer not to hurt your guards.”

Intrigued, Yukino agreed to the duel, appointed a time, and released Takeru. When his men questioned his decision, the lord said, “He will turn tail and run or he will step into the circle with me and die. Either way, we will be rid of him.”

Upon hearing of Takeru’s return and the challenge he had issued, Kotetsu Toki ran to his adoptive son and begged him to withdraw from the fight.

“The challenge has been made,” said Takeru. “As a koro, I cannot withdraw.”

“Yukino Izumi is one of the best swordsmen in the region,” Toki warned, in despair. “The sword he wields is one of mine—the best I ever made. How do you expect to beat him without any weapon at all?”

Takeru just smiled. “What you gave me was more valuable than metal. You gave me knowledge of the blade itself.” With that, the young Matsuda embraced his mentor and adoptive father, and promised to return to him after the fight.

Yukino Izumi appeared the next day for the duel with the sword Kotetsu Toki had forged for him, an excellent sword, folded a thousand times, sharpened to cut through five men at a stroke. Yukino met Matsuda at the center of the main square, in view of the whole town...”

Kwang leaned forward, his eyes wide.

“Yukino unsheathed the great sword, and the fight was over.”

“What?” Kwang breathed.

“In a single stroke, Matsuda Takeru’s jiya sliced through the Kotetsu-forged blade and straight through Yukino’s body. The usurper was dead before he hit the ground, the first victim of the Whispering Blade.”

“What? But... how?” Kwang looked from Mamoru to the numu family. “Ice can’t cut through metal. It’s scientifically impossible. Even ice at sub-zero temperatures, under a lot of pressure, still can’t get as dense as steel. The military has tested this in labs. Ice  _can’t_  cut through metal.”

“Yet it does,” Grandma Kotetsu said calmly, “and has, time and time again since Matsuda Takeru pioneered the technique.”

What neither Kwang nor any of the Kotetsus knew was that the Whispering Blade’s power didn’t come from its density alone. Its cutting power was a product of the wielder’s precision. The swordsman had to have such perfect control over his jiya that he could sharpen its edge to a single molecule, allowing it to cut through anything. It was a feat of human skill and intuition that could never be replicated in a lab.

“You may believe the story or you may not, but you’ve held still for several siiranu.”

“What?” Kwang looked down at himself and seemed to register that Kotetsu Kama had cleaned, bandaged, and splinted every injury. “Oh.” He let out a laugh, as a toothless grin crinkled Grandma Kotetsu’s face.

“You see, an old lady has her tricks.”

“Now, sit and have some food,” Kotetsu’s wife said, motioning Kwang to the table.

“But what happened after that?” Kwang asked as he joined Mamoru at the numuwu’s scrubbed wooden dinner table. “After Takeru cut Yukino Izumi in half? What happened then?”

“They say that the best swordsman can win a fight in a single cut,” said Grandma Kotetsu. “Matsuda Takeru won that fight and all to come in that cut, for after witnessing his power, no one dared challenge him. The only person to step forward was Yukino Izumi’s son, Chiaki, a boy of twelve. The newly-orphaned Yukino said to Takeru, “I don’t intend to fight you for my control of Takayubi, but I will not allow you to execute this town’s finawu or destroy the Falleya temples.”

In curiosity, Takeru asked, “What if I were to order Falleya purged from this region?”

“I would challenge you to single combat,” Yukino Chiaki said without hesitation.

Takeru was moved by the boy’s bravery, and he was wise enough not to repeat his father’s mistakes. Despite his power, he did not wish to rule through fear.

“I am the blood of the gods,” he said to the assembled crowd. “The moon and ocean fear no change.”

According to Chiaki’s request, he kept Falleya temples standing and incorporated Falleya laws into his rule, eventually becoming a devout Falleka himself. Under the new laws of kamaya, he named the Kotetsus numus to the Matsuda family, binding their two houses in loyalty and mutual support for all time to come.”

“And the Yukino boy,” Kwang said. “He just let him live?”

“Not only that, he let him return to the ancestral Yukino castle and rule there. And he married Yukino Izumi’s oldest daughter, Megumi, to ensure an enduring peace between their houses. Your sword master, Yukino Dai, is a descendant of Yukino Chiaki, as Matsuda Mamoru and his family are descendants of Matsuda Takeru. Their two families have coexisted in this region for a thousand years. It was our ancestors—Matsuda, Yukino, and Kotetsu—who ushered in the first Falleya state in Shirojima.”

“Wow,” Kwang said. “And the Whispering Blade has just been passed down Matsuda Takeru’s line all this time?”

Grandma Kotetsu nodded her head. “Takeru passed the Whispering Blade down to his sons, who in turn passed it down to their sons. And ever since that time, sons of the Matsuda family are always sent to apprentice with Kotetsu smiths, in the hopes that skill in steel will lead to a Whispering Blade.”

“But... wait a second,” Kwang said. “Under Falleya, isn’t it kind of weird for koronu like the Matsudas to apprentice with numuwu?”

“The Whispering Blade is the sacred force that brought Takayubi together,” Kotetsu Kama said. “For the sake of preserving the Matsuda bloodline technique, we make this one exception. Without the combination of numu and koro arts, the technique can’t be carried on. Matsuda Takeru was the sort of genius who comes around once in a millennium. Those who are able to replicate his technique are often one in a generation.”

Kwang turned to Mamoru. “Wait. So, there are some Matsudas who can use the Whispering Blade and some who can’t?”

“Most never master it,” Kotetsu Kama said, sparing Mamoru from answering, “though it is the fate of all Matsudas to spend their lives trying. There have been weak generations in the past, when people feared that the technique might disappear from the world. We are fortunate that this generation will have at least one Whispering Blade.” He gave Mamoru a smile that Mamoru couldn’t return. “We’re certain of it.”

Most days, Mamoru was certain of it too. Not right now. Now he felt like a brittle shell, capable of nothing, containing nothing.

 _The moon and the ocean fear no change._  “So, Matsuda Takeru ended up adopting the ideals of his parents’ killer?” Mamoru said quietly.

The three numuwu looked at him in surprise. “Well... yes,” Kotetsu Kama said. “You know the story.”

“He was so strong,” Mamoru murmured. “He had the blood of the old gods in his veins, and he just... gave way to these foreign ideas?”

“He saw that Falleya was the way forward,” Kotetsu Kama said, his deep voice that was usually found so calming grating somehow grating at Mamoru’ nerves. “While it was Falleya that killed his family, it was Falleya that spared the Kotetsus he depended on.”

“But how did he know?” Mamoru frowned at his knuckles. “How could he be so sure?” How could anyone be so sure of a decision that determined the fate of thousands?  _How_?

“Are you alright, Matsuda-dono?” the numu asked gently.

Mamoru was not alright. He was churning again, his jiya agitated by the heat. “How could he just abandon everything he knew—his family’s legacy—for a new religion?”

“Takeru grew up learned in the tenets of both religions. He studied both with the same diligence that he studied the blade. And as a leader, he had a decision to make.” Kotetsu paused. “Are you sure you’re alright? Your jiya feels unwell—”

“Kotetsu Kama.” Mamoru looked up sharply. “Tell me about Yammanka obsidian.”

“What?” Kotetsu said, taken aback.

“The really hard types of Yammanka glass,” Mamoru said. “Are there Kaigenese craftsmen who know how to make it?”

“Of course,” Kotetsu said. “Nowadays, there’s so much commerce and cultural exchange between Kaigen and Yamma, there are many Kaigenese who work in jonjo glass.”

“But not Zilazen glass?”

“Of course not.” Kotetsu laughed. “That material is a bloodline technique, like our steel folding and your Whispering Blade. Its secrets do not leave the Zilazen family.”

“Oh.” Mamoru hadn’t realized that. “So, the Kaigenese military has never produced anything made of Zilazen glass?”

“No, no,” Kotetsu said. “Although, my cousin tells me the Empire has been importing a lot of Yammanka bullets, so maybe—”

“What about bigger things?” Mamoru asked. “Has Kaigen ever had Zilazen glass machines? Like tanks or planes?”

“Not that I know of,” Kotetsu said. “The Zilazen make machines to be operated by tajakalu, not jijakalu. Importing that kind of equipment would be nonsense. And Kaigen certainly doesn’t have any craftsmen capable of creating Yammanka obsidian. I believe a Kaigenese smith would have to marry a Zilazen senkuli to be privy to the technique. Even then, it might be too carefully guarded. I think it might be that only those with Zilazen blood are allowed to learn—so, the child of a mixed marriage, maybe?”

His wife gave a disapproving ‘tsk.’ “What good theonite would want to sully their bloodlines like that?”

“I don’t know,” Kotetsu said with a shrug. “If we ever get to see a Zilazen glass katana, the impurity might be worth it.”

“Do you think that would be possible?” Kwang asked, and Mamoru couldn’t tell if he was genuinely excited or just eager to steer the conversation away from planes.

“I know that Zilazen glass swords have been made in the past,” Kotetsu said.

“Really?”

“They’re extremely rare,” Kotetsu said. “There are no more than a hundred in the world.”

After Kwang had asked a few dozen more questions and Kotetsu’s wife was satisfied that both boys had eaten as much as they could, the blacksmith walked Mamoru and Kwang to the edge of the numu village and sent them on their way up the mountain.

Mechanically, Mamoru bowed to his teacher and wished him a good night. As he and Kwang set off up the mountain, he expected the northern boy to give him some form of ‘I told you so.’ He was prepared for it. But Kwang didn’t gloat. He just followed wordlessly at Mamoru’s elbow up the path to the western village.

When he did speak, all he said was, “Are you going to be okay?”

Mamoru’s voice was neither hard nor stormy. It was empty. “Yes.”

They walked on in silence for a while. Kwang no longer needed Mamoru to lead him. The first light had crept into the sky, illuminating the way before them.

“How is your arm, Kwang-san?”

“Chul-hee.”

“What?”

“Call me Chul-hee,” Kwang said. “We fell down the side of a mountain together. We can be on a first name basis, can’t we?”

Mamoru didn’t turn to look at the other boy. “If you like.”

“Thanks for introducing me to your numu friends, by the way. I’ve never really hung out with numuwu before.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” Mamoru said, “although I’m sorry you had to sit through a whole history lesson.”

“It’s alright,” Kwang said. “I like listening. And your history’s pretty cool.”

 _If it’s really history at all,_  Mamoru thought. If Hibiki Sensei could be mistaken about Takayubi’s past, so could Grandma Kotetsu. So could anyone.

“So, um…” Kwang must have sensed the heaviness of Mamoru’s nyama because he changed the subject. “It’s pretty cool what Numu Kotestsu said about Zilazen glass weapons, right? I had no idea the Zilazen made swords!”

“Neither did I,” Mamoru said. “I guess the world’s craftsmen share things with each other that don’t always concern us koronu.”

“Do you think a Zilazen glass katana would be even stronger than your magical Whispering Blade?”

“I can’t make a Whispering Blade,” Mamoru said. “And anyway, there would probably never be a chance to test it. Kotetsu Kama said there are fewer than a hundred Zilazen swords the whole world.”

Not far up the path, the two boys parted ways.

“Good night, Chul-hee-kun,” Mamoru said to see how the words would feel on his tongue.

They felt strange until Kwang turned and smiled at him—an exhausted smile full of gratitude and fondness that he hadn’t earned. “Good night, Mamoru-kun.”

Mamoru had no way of knowing that he had lived his whole life within an arm’s reach of a Zilazen glass sword. The black blade had been bundled away under the floorboards of the Matsudas’ kitchen shortly before he was born and had stayed there, untouched, ever since. It was a little weapon, barely bigger than a traditional wakizashi—but it had seen more combat than any katana in the Matsuda dojo.

But Mamoru had no way of knowing any of that.

His mother, after all, did not talk about her past.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Sword of Kaigen_ is a standalone novella set in the universe of my _Theonite_ novels that I have been releasing monthly to my newsletter subscribers. Since I am not sure yet whether I will end up publishing it in any official capacity (and if I do, it won't be until quite a while from now) I thought I would share it here on my favorite online reading platform.
> 
> This novella is a standalone story, meaning you do not have to be familiar with my other work to enjoy it. Although, if you want to know more about the world in which the story takes place, feel free to visit me at **mlwangbooks.com** , where you will find a glossary of terms, a guide to Duna's social structure, and other potentially fun, informative stuff.

When Misaki hid her sword, she nailed the floorboards down over it. It was a promise to herself. She might never be able to destroy the part of her that was aggressive and willful, but she  _could_  bury it. That was what she had thought at the time.

“A jijaka is a fine thing to be,” Master Wangara had once told her.

“Why?” she asked.

“Water is the best substance a fighter can embody,” the wiry old tajaka had said. “Most strong things are rigid. If you are water, you can shift to fit any mold and freeze yourself strong. You can be strong in any shape. You can be anything.”

_I can be strong in any shape_ , Misaki told herself as she packed up the hammer and nails.  _I can be anything_. And if she had adapted to the dangers of Livingston’s dark alleys, how hard could it be to master marriage and motherhood?

 “It will all be worth it when you hold a child in your arms,” her mother had told her, all aglow with pride. “It will be worth it when you watch them grow.”

“As Nagi smiles on strong men, Nami smiles on patient women,” her father had told her.

And Misaki had believed them. Not because it made any sense. Because she had to. Because if she didn’t believe it was worth it, then what had she done?

So, when her new husband barely even looked at her in the aftermath of their wedding, she kept smiling. When her father-in-law snapped at her, she bowed, and spoke sweetly, and did as she was told. It would all be worth it. When her husband’s frigid nyama made her skin crawl, she gritted her teeth and endured his touch. It would all be worth it. When the pain of labor was so intense she nearly passed out, she held back her tears and her screams. It would all be worth it to hold the child in her arms.

As she reached out to hold Mamoru for the first time, she forced a smile. But as his tiny body curled up against her breast, he wasn’t warm. She held him close and waited, but the joy she was supposed to feel never came. All she felt was a cold echo of her husband’s jiya, pulsing from the baby, reminding her that the child she held in her arms was not truly hers. He was a Matsuda.

It was then that she should have realized that the divine light she had been promised was not coming. It was never coming. But Misaki had always been too stubborn—or too stupid—to acknowledge her mistakes. So she forced down the tears, smiled her sweetest smile, and held the infant closer, even as the feel of him made her want to shudder and retch. She forced herself to love him.

As Mamoru grew, so did his jiya. By the age of three, he had the aura of a much older theonite. Morning mist would reach out to touch his skin like fingers, standing water would freeze his touch, and dew drops would slide from blades of grass to dog his footsteps. Misaki had grown up in a household of strong jijakalu, but even she had never heard of such power in such a small child.

“Were you and Takeru like this when you were little?” Misaki asked her brother-in-law one evening as Mamoru splashed in a puddle in the garden. His little hands sent the water flying higher than normal. A few drops turned to ice and pinged off the roof. “Was your jiya this strong when you were three?”

“Ah...” Takashi scratched the back of his head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really recall. My first memory of using my jiya was when Grandfather started training me for combat.”

“How old were you?” Misaki asked.

Takashi shrugged. “Five? Six, maybe? You could check with our father. Then again...”  _maybe don’t_  were the words Takashi meant to say but couldn’t. Matsuda Susumu tended to get particularly ill-tempered any time someone raised the subject of his sons’ overwhelming power. It was a sore subject for him.

“So, you didn’t start properly training your jiya until you were school age?” Misaki said.

“That’s the way it’s usually done.”

“Usually,” Misaki repeated, “but Mamoru is an  _un_ usual child. Shouldn’t someone teach him to control that power before he hurts himself?” The average three-year-old theonite didn’t manifest enough power for this to be an issue, but Mamoru’s abilities were fast approaching a level where they would become genuinely dangerous.

Takashi shrugged. “When the boy starts his training will be up to his father.” A gentle reminder that Misaki was overstepping her authority.

“Of course,” she said, bowing her head.

“And, knowing Takeru, he won’t want to train Mamoru-kun himself until the boy has at least learned his fundamentals at school,” Takashi continued. “I don’t— _oops_!” He threw a hand out to stop an arc of half-frozen water droplets before they hit himself and Misaki. “Careful there, little one!” he laughed, vaporizing the drops with a flick of his fingers. “You almost hit your mother. My, my...” he mused, staring at Mamoru. “Maybe he  _could_  use a little help. You should ask Takeru if he can start training a little early.”

Misaki did. But as usual, Takeru had no interest in his child’s parenting and even less interest in his wife’s opinions on it. As Takashi had predicted, he said, “I’m a master jijaka and swordsman. I don’t train little children.”

“But—”

“I’ll train him once he’s worthy of what I have to teach. Now, bring me more tea.”

But Misaki decided that  _someone_  had to teach Mamoru control. And if his father, uncle, and grandfather weren’t going to, why shouldn’t she? She was his mother, after all. And, whether or not it became a lady, she had plenty of techniques worth teaching.

She started out with the simple games she had played with her brothers as a child, racing ice chunks down the floor like cars, building snow towers, tossing a ball of liquid water back and forth without spilling any on the floor. Mamoru excelled at and quickly tired of the games that occupied most jijaka children for years, and Misaki found herself walking him through more advanced techniques.

“You want to make sure you leave a little cushion of snow between your knuckles and the ice,” she said, guiding Mamoru’s jiya as he froze water over his little fist. “That’s it. Now try again.”

Mamoru hesitated, but obeyed his mother and swung his fist into the rock. “Oh!” His little eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It doesn’t hurt!”

“That’s the idea.” Misaki smiled. “This way, even you’ve got delicate little fingers like Kaa-chan’s, you can punch just about anything without damaging your hand.”

“I want to try again!” Mamoru exclaimed, shaking the water from his hand.

Mamoru practiced hitting the boulder again and again while his grandfather watched from across the courtyard with a sour expression. Misaki had noticed that her father-in-law’s permanent scowl seemed to deepen whenever he watched her showing Mamoru a technique, but she elected to ignore it. A reasonable man couldn’t possibly be angry with a mother for teaching her child to control his power. Of course, Matsuda Susumu was not a reasonable man.

He finally spoke up the day Misaki taught Mamoru to congeal blood. The boy, then five, had skinned both knees on the path in front of the house. Worried that his crying might set off his temperamental grandfather, she had showed him the advanced technique to distract him—not realizing that that would displease her father-in-law more than the noise.

“Misaki!” the old man snapped just as she told Mamoru to try the next scab on his own. “A word.”

“Of course, Matsuda-sama.” Misaki went and knelt before her father-in-law, just out of earshot of Mamoru. “What is it?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Teaching my son how to deal with an injury,” Misaki said.

“That is not your place.”

“But,” Misaki protested before she could stop herself, “scabbing is a useful technique for a warrior to know.”

Matsuda Susumu’s face twisted. “Know your place, you stupid woman. What would you understand of a warrior’s jiya?”

_What would_ you _understand of a warrior’s jiya_? Misaki thought savagely. “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head. “I was out of line. I won’t do it again.”

“I should hope not,” Susumu huffed. “Matsuda warriors fight with pure, untainted water. We have no use for filthy Tsusano blood magic. And a  _warrior_  has no use for a  _woman’s_  input.”

Misaki caught her rage and ruthlessly smothered it before it could rise to the surface. “Forgive me, Matsuda-sama.”

Every time Misaki’s sense of duty failed her and she had the urge to lash out at her father-in-law, she stopped her tongue through sheer vindictive cruelty, reminding herself that her sharpest barbs couldn’t inflict worse than what this man had already suffered. He had spent his whole life a disappointment—an heir to the Matsuda name too weak to master the Whispering Blade, despised by his parents, surpassed by his sons.

As the only son among many daughters, Matsuda Susumu had been his generation’s sole hope of carrying on the Matsuda techniques. The family had poured years into his training, but he never displayed the power or talent of his forebears. He never achieved a Whispering Blade. In desperation, his father taught the technique to Susumu’s sons when they were old enough. Both Takashi and Takeru proved superior jijakalu to their father, mastering the Whispering Blade in their teenage years.

And what happened to a man who devoted his entire life and soul to a single pursuit only to fail entirely? Misaki supposed, after so many years of disappointment, he turned into a wrinkled husk of a being who could only find solace in tormenting those younger and better than himself. The cruelest thing Misaki could do to a bitter creature like her father-in-law was keep serving, smiling, and pushing out babies like nothing bothered her. The cruelest thing she could do was serve her purpose—like he never could.

So, she bowed herself out of Matsuda-sama’s presence with a demure smile and returned to her son.

“Look, Kaa-chan!” Mamoru beamed. “I can do it. I’m doing it!”

“Stop.” Misaki put her hands over the boy’s stilling his jiya.

His smile disappeared. “Why?”

“I shouldn’t have showed you... This is not a technique you should use. Please... forget that I taught you.”

“You mean I can’t use it again?”

Misaki hesitated. “Maybe...” She lowered her voice. “Maybe keep it on hand for emergencies.” Jiya blood clotting could save a fighter’s life on the battlefield, and she would be damned if she was going to tell her son right to his face that the purity of his technique was more important than his life. “For emergencies  _only_ ,” she said sternly.

“Yes, Kaa-chan.”

From that day on, Misaki was careful to remember that Mamoru was not hers. His accomplishments didn’t belong to her. They belonged to his father. Having taught Mamoru the basics of control, Misaki stopped meddling in his development. Soon, he went off to school, where proper fighters—men of the Matsuda and Yukino lines—would teach him to use his powers as a man should.

Misaki was pregnant again. She felt the nyama of a growing child inside her and plastered her smile in place to do it all again. She had borne the pain once without a single tear or word of complaint; she could do it again. She didn’t realize that the only thing more painful than bearing another Matsuda son would be failing to do so.

“You lost it?” Matsuda-sama snarled. “What do you mean you lost it?”

“I...” Misaki tried to answer but a wave of dizziness overtook her. The lines of the tatami crawled and swam beneath her knees. The room was tilting. She had dragged herself from the blood-soaked birthing bed, washed herself, and dressed when the midwives said that her father-in-law demanded an audience. She had always had exceptional stamina and pain tolerance, but that had been the end of it. Her body was shaking. The tatami swirled and became waves—waves that could swallow her up and wash all of this away...

“You stupid, selfish woman,” her father-in-law was saying somewhere in the distance. She tried to hear him, but only made out splintered pieces. “Sons”... “strong, warrior sons”... “the reason”... “the only reason you are here.” He sounded angrier than usual. Misaki caught herself with a hand on the solid floor before she could fall face-first into the welcoming waves.

“Pathetic! You’ve just cost me a grandchild and you’re too arrogant to even speak. You really are a selfish woman. You disgust me.”

“I...” Misaki struggled to make her voice work. “I’m sor—”

_CRACK_!

She registered the impact before she felt the sting in her cheek. Credit where credit was due; Matsuda Susumu hit  _hard_  for an old man.

“If you can’t give this family sons, you are worthless.” Through her haze, Misaki caught the note of satisfaction in Susumu’s voice; she had finally proved herself the disappointment he had always said she was. Finally, she was truly lower than he was. “Don’t forget why you are here.”

Misaki had lifted herself onto her elbows, but couldn’t find the strength to push herself up onto her knees.

Above her, Matsuda-sama let out a disgusted noise. “She’s your woman. You deal with her.”

“Yes, Father,” a second voice said.

Takeru.

Misaki was so disoriented that she hadn’t even realized that her husband was in the room. He was so still, his icy nyama was so like his father’s, that he simply disappeared into the background. It wasn’t until the older man had hobbled out of the room that Takeru moved, taking slow steps until he came to a stop over ‘his woman.’

His bare feet and the hem of his hakama swam into focus before Misaki—and suddenly she felt the warmth of tears in her eyes. It was almost a relief; she had spent so many years playing the good wife, holding back her tears. But she was not a good wife anymore. Now, she had failed him. Now, surely, it would be alright for her to cry. In the face of her husband’s grief and disappointment, the only appropriate thing to do was break down.

Even if she had had the strength to lift her head, she wouldn’t have looked up at him. How could she? She had just lost his child. He must be furious...

“Come, Misaki.” His voice was calm. “You need to get some rest.”

She didn’t move.

Crouching down, Takeru cupped her cheek where his father had hit her. The gesture was utilitarian—a cold object to bring down the swelling. He did not even try to meet her eyes.

“Can you stand?”

“I’m sorry,” Misaki said softly, her voice straining against the tears trapped in her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s alright,” he said, sliding one arm beneath her knees and putting the other around her shoulders. “I’ll carry you.”

Takeru, as always, handled her as if she were a particularly fragile doll. Maybe he could feel how rigid she grew under his touch. Maybe he truly thought all women were that frail. It was impossible to tell  _what_  Takeru was thinking behind that impassive expression. Sometimes Misaki considered it a mercy; now it made her feel unbearably lonely.

She didn’t know if she shivered in response to his nyama—but once the shaking started, it didn’t stop. It was more than just cold, more than grief. It was panic, as she realized that he wasn’t going to yell at her. She wasn’t going to cry. If she couldn’t even cry... if she couldn’t even cry, what kind of monster was she?

“Pull yourself together.” Takeru didn’t quite look at her, staring ahead at the floor just past her shoulder. “You’re going to be fine.”

But Misaki was not fine. She was the weak, selfish woman Matsuda-sama had always said. She was a monster who couldn’t even shed tears for her lost child. What kind of husband said that was ‘fine’? What man with a beating heart could say that?

When Takeru lowered her onto the futon, Misaki found her hands tangling in the front of his haori, gripping with all the strength they had left.

_Stay,_  she thought desperately. She couldn’t be alone here with her doubts, strangled, unable to cry, unable to move.

“Let go,” Takeru said without emotion.

But Misaki’s hands curled tighter. If he walked away now, she would turn to stone.

“This is unseemly,” Takeru said coldly. “Let go.”

“Takeru...” She searched his face one more time for some hint of grief, or empathy, or rage,  _anything_. “I’m sorry, I failed you. I—”

“We’ll try again.” He said it as if she had dropped some eggs on the way back from market. “After you have your strength back.” Icy hands closed over hers and effortlessly pried her fingers loose. “Rest.”

“Takeru,” she whispered as he walked away. “Please—”

“Do as you’re told.” He closed the door. And in that moment, he might as well have been the one who slapped her. Nami, he might as well have taken his Whispering Blade and carved everything from inside her. She no longer saw her husband or Mamoru as they passed through the house around her. Every night, Takeru clinically opened her kimono, pushed her down, and lay with her. He put another baby in her, and she lost that one too.

After the second miscarriage, she began to think that she really was a doll—stiff, unfeeling, incapable of producing life because she was not really alive. There were horror stories of Tsusano puppeteers, manipulating the blood in the bodies of others—dead and living. Sometimes Misaki wondered if she had subconsciously become one of them, puppeting her own gutted body through each day.

It wasn’t until Setsuko married into the family that a pulse flickered to life in the doll’s chest. Setsuko was the first person who had ever talked to Misaki about the miscarriages. It had been the subject of their first argument... the first real argument Misaki had had in years.

Misaki couldn’t even remember what she had said to set her sister-in-law off—some innocuous thing about being stupid or useless—and Setsuko had slammed her spatula down on the stovetop.

“Stop it!”

Startled, Misaki could only stare for a moment before stammering, “S-stop what?”

“You keep saying such horrible things about yourself and I won’t have it! Why do you always have to call yourself bad and useless?”

“Why?” Misaki repeated. It seemed obvious. It was uncharacteristically cruel of Setsuko to make her say it aloud. “Well, I-I haven’t given my husband a son in years. I’ve miscarried twice now.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad woman.”

“Doesn’t it?” Misaki said numbly. “My husband is a powerful jijaka, from a line that has never had any trouble producing sons. If his babies are dying before they’re born, it’s not a problem with him; it’s me.”

The more Misaki had thought about it over the years, the more it seemed that it must be her fault. She hadn’t really wanted the babies. Not with the passion she was supposed to. That in itself was a sin. A strong jijaka like Misaki could drown a child inside her if she didn’t want it enough. She had no recollection of trying to end the pregnancies; both times she had meant to carry the babies to term. Even if she had felt no excitement at the prospect, she had  _meant_  to give birth. But there was so much bitterness trapped inside her. Could she have done it in her sleep? While she dreamed? Had her subconscious risen like a sleep-walking demon and drowned the babies?

“You didn’t do it,” Setsuko said fiercely. “Anyone who tries to tell you that you did is an idiot.”

“But... our father-in-law thought...” Misaki choked as his voice rang through her head. ‘ _You selfish, stupid woman, you did this! You killed my grandchildren_!’ For years, she had sat still with those words leaching into her mind like poison— _you killed my grandchildren!_

“Our father-in-law is dead,” Setsuko cut through her thoughts in a matter-of-fact voice. “Whatever he thought doesn’t matter anymore. If it did, I wouldn’t be here.” Setsuko’s okonomiyaki, forgotten on the stove, were starting to smoke. “The only thing that matters is what  _you_  think. Do you think it’s your fault you miscarried?”

“I hope not.” Misaki was surprised at how easily the truth fell out of her mouth.

“Then it’s not your fault,” Setsuko said resolutely.

One of the okonomiyaki in the pan caught fire.

“Oh no—” Misaki started toward the stove, but Setsuko stopped her.

“Let it burn!” Setsuko said savagely. “It was going to taste terrible anyway. Look, I know I look like a dumb country girl—and I am—but I know a thing or two about the messy business you nobles don’t like to talk about. My auntie is a midwife. She’ll tell you a woman can’t get rid of a healthy baby unless she really tries—and more often than not it’ll kill her. I reckon getting rid of a Matsuda baby would be even harder. If you were the reason behind the miscarriages, you would know it.”

Having said her piece, Setsuko turned to clean up the mess she had made of the stove, leaving Misaki to stare at her in a mute stupor. It had been a long time—such a long time—since anyone had had that kind of faith in her. She wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“But if it wasn’t my jiya...” she said, hating that she could hear the fear in her own voice, “then I’m broken. What if I can’t have any more children?”

“Then your husband still has a perfectly good heir in Mamoru. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. I thought you said you didn’t really want more children anyway.”

“But that’s the only reason I’m here.” Misaki’s voice shook. “I’m not here because my husband loves me. I’m here to give him sons.”

“What are you? A baby dispenser?” Setsuko laughed, scrunching up her nose.

Misaki would have laughed too—except that that was exactly what she was. And over the years, the thought had crushed her into something small.

“That’s why he married me.”

“Well, you married him back, didn’t you?” Setsuko said.

Misaki looked up at her sister-in-law in surprise. “I didn’t...” she trailed off, unsure of what she even meant to say.  _I didn’t have a choice?_ That was what she told herself sometimes, but in her heart, she knew it was a lie. If she had wanted, she could have fled all of this and set fire to the bridges behind her. It just hadn’t been that simple. It had come down to a choice between her soul and her duty; she had chosen duty.

“I swear, Misaki, I know you’re smart—with your big vocabulary, and your noble upbringing, and your fancy academy education—but sometimes you’re the dumbest woman I’ve ever met.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Why don’t you try taking responsibility for the things you  _can_  control instead of the things you can’t?”

“I...” Misaki considered arguing for a moment, then cocked her head at Setsuko as the other woman’s words sank in. “Are all fisherwomen this smart, or just you?” she asked finally.

“Just me,” Setsuko said. “How do you think I landed me a handsome husband so far above my station?”

“Good point.”

“Listen, little sister.” Setsuko took Misaki’s hands. “I know we haven’t known each other for long, but you don’t strike me as someone so weak she can’t take control of her own happiness. There’s a bright, strong woman in there.” Setsuko put a hand on Misaki’s chest. “I’d like to meet her.”

Misaki let out a laugh—her first laugh in a long time. “Careful what you wish for. You don’t...” She paused when she realized that she had very nearly told Setsuko about the sword hidden under the floorboards beneath their feet. That had to stay buried. But even with the sword firmly boarded up beneath them, Misaki felt a piece of her old smirk turn the corner of her mouth. “Careful what you wish for.”

While the floorboards stayed nailed firmly in place, Setsuko had broken through Misaki’s stupor, bringing a part of her to life again. Maybe it wasn’t a perfect life. Maybe she wasn’t truly happy. But she had found it in her to produce three more children— Hiroshi, colder than Mamoru and even more powerful for his age, Nagasa, with his sharp eyes and boundless energy, and now Izumo.

Misaki’s fourth son wasn’t as deathly cold as his brothers had been. Maybe that was a bad thing; maybe he didn’t harbor the kind of frigid power his father was looking for, but it certainly made him easier to hold close to her breast.

“Yosh, yosh,” she murmured into the baby’s soft hair in between humming. “You’re alright, Izu-kun. You’re alright.”

It was only the third time he had woken up that night. Not bad.

 

“ _Nenneko, nennneko yo_ ,” she sang softly.

“ _The moon shines down on dewy fields._

_In my hometown_

_Beyond this mountain and the next_

_An old man used to play a driftwood flute._

_The sun, long sunk beneath the sea,_

_Shines in Mother’s mirror through the night._

_My grandparents are dewdrops on the grass and notes on the wind._

_Whisper, little sound, through the field_

_Murmuring of all that we cherish_

_Sighing for all that we mourn._

_My parents are dewdrops on the grass and notes on the wind._

_Quiver, little sound, through the field_

_Weeping for what is past_

_Laughing for tomorrow’s joy._

_You and I are dewdrops on the grass and notes on the wind._

_Echo, little sound, through the field_

_All the things that are forever_

_All the things that fade away._

_Nenneko, nenneko yo_

_Catch the moonlight and shine, little dewdrop,_

_For beyond this mountain and the next_

_The old man plays on_

_The old man plays on..._ ”

 

As she finished her lullaby, Izumo let out a tiny breath against her shoulder. He was asleep. She brushed the tears from the infant’s face and slowly, slowly lowered him into his cradle.

“There you go, little one,” she crooned, nudging the cradle into motion. “Sleep well.”

She had just straightened up when a muffled sound made her stiffen. It sounded like someone was in the hall. Stepping out of the room, she saw something move in the shadows. Her hand flew to her hip, but of course there was nothing there. Stupid. There hadn’t been a sword there for fifteen years.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

“Sorry, Kaa-chan.”

“Mamoru,” she let out her breath as he stepped into the lamplight. Somehow, she hadn’t recognized his nyama or his outline. In the dark, he almost cut the figure of a grown man...

“I was trying to walk softly,” Mamoru said. “I thought you were all asleep.”

“And I thought you must have snuck in and gotten to bed some time during the night,” Misaki returned, trying not to sound reproachful rather than shaken. “You know it’s nearly morning?”

“Yes, Kaa-chan. I’m sorry.”

“Your uncle told me he had consigned you and the new boy to roof cleaning duty. Don’t tell me it took you this long to finish a simple chore.”

“We ran into a problem.” Mamoru looked at his feet. “We didn’t actually finish.”

“So, not only did you get yourself in trouble, you also failed to complete your punishment?” This wasn’t like Mamoru. “Come here.” She motioned him further into the light.

He stepped forward and her eyes flicked over him, taking in his bruised face, and dirt smudged uniform. She had been so preoccupied with the new baby, and Mamoru had been so busy with school, it had been a while since she had really looked at her oldest son. He had grown so much while she wasn’t paying attention, standing almost as tall as his father. His skinny limbs had started to fill out with the muscles of an adult fighter—but his scrapes and bruises spoke of a boy’s carelessness.

“I’m confused,” Misaki said. “Your uncle told me you gave the new kid a beating, not the other way around.”

Mamoru fidgeted. “This wasn’t—none of this is from him. We fell off the roof.”

“What did you do that for?”

“It was a mistake.”

“Matsudas don’t make mistakes.” It was what Takeru always said to the boys, but she regretted the words when she saw the shattered expression on Mamoru’s face. He really took them seriously; of course he did. He was a Matsuda. “Hey, Kaa-chan was just joking.” She offered him a smile. “Change your clothes and I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I already ate,” Mamoru said, “at Kotetsu-kama’s house. Kwang-san—the new boy—was injured from the fall, so we stopped to get his arm fixed, and they insisted we stay for dinner.”

“Oh.” It sounded as though Mamoru had had quite the night. “Well, change out of your clothes anyway. You need to let me wash that uniform before you’re seen in it again.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Mamoru nodded and moved down the hall to his own room.

He emerged clad in his house kimono, washed clean, bandages wound around his knuckles.

“Uniform,” he murmured, handing his school clothes to his mother.

He knelt and looked on in tense silence as Misaki gathered water into the laundry tub, dumped the uniform into it, added soap, and began spinning the garment with her jiya.  She spun the water with her dominant right hand, holding her left just above the tub to keep any wayward drops from sloshing over the edge.

Once she was satisfied that she had spun all the blood and dirt from the fabric, she streamed the dirty water into a second bucket and replaced it with fresh water. All the while, Mamoru watched her work, though he didn’t really seem to see her. His mind was somewhere else.

“Is Tou-sama... does he know?” he asked.

“Your father didn’t come home today,” Misaki said, working the clean water into a spin. “He’s sleeping overnight at the office. So, you’re off the hook for tonight.”

“Oh. I thought... you might...?”

“I might what?”

“Give me a talking to.”

Misaki sighed. “I rock the babies to sleep and keep the little children safe. Are you a little baby?”

“No, Kaa-chan.”

“When it comes to business like this—men’s business—that’s for your father to handle. But,” she continued before she managed to stop herself, “if you want someone to scold you, I’m annoyed enough to stand in for him at the moment.”

“Oh—I-I didn’t mean—”

“It seems you’ve made one stupid mistake on top of another,” she said, pulling the water from Mamoru’s uniform. “How do you intend to fix it?”

“I’ve apologized to Kwang Chul-hee,” Mamoru said. “I thought I would go to school the short way, a bit early, and finish cleaning the roof on my own.”

Misaki looked out at the sky and raised an eyebrow at Mamoru. “It’s dawn, son. When are you planning to sleep?”

“Oh.” Mamoru blinked. “I-I guess I’m not.”

“I don’t think that’s a brilliant idea,” Misaki said. “You should lie down and sleep for at least a little while.”

Mamoru shook his head distractedly. “I don’t think I can.”

It was only then that Misaki looked more closely at his face and realized that he wasn’t just exhausted. He was in pain.

_What’s wrong?_  She wanted to ask. But that wasn’t the sort of thing you asked a man and a warrior—even if you were his mother.

“It’s not like you to get into a fight with another student,” she probed finally.

“I know.” Mamoru looked down at his knees. “I...” He fidgeted. “Can I tell you why?” The question seemed to tumble out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What?”

“Can I tell you why I hit him?”

“If you weren’t able to control yourself, I don’t care to hear any excuses,” Misaki said sternly, “and neither will your father. When he hears about this—”

“Please.” Mamoru’s voice was strained. “It’s not—I’m not trying to make excuses. I just...” There was a strange desperation on the boy’s face that Misaki couldn’t remember ever seeing there before.

And before she could stop herself, she said softly, “Tell me.”

“Kwang-san was saying bad things—treasonous things—against the Empire. He said the history Hibiki Sensei teaches us isn’t true. He said that during the Keleba, a lot of men died in Kaigen, and the Ranganese had to be driven back by the Yammanka reinforcements. He says the Empire covered up the deaths of all those people.” Mamoru was watching her face. Intently. Waiting for her reaction.

“I see,” she said stiffly.

“You see?” Mamoru’s voice broke. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What else would I have to say about it?”

“You... you...” Mamoru looked at her like a drowning man watching the shore recede—and Misaki realized that he was waiting for her to tell him what to think.

She was his parent, after all; she was supposed to have the answers; she was supposed to steer him right.

“You must have something to say,” he begged.

“I...” Misaki opened her mouth, closed it, bit the inside of her cheek. Finally, she said, “Your father would be very unhappy to hear you repeating those things in his house.”

Mamoru’s gaze dropped in shame and she felt a sudden surge of guilt. It was up to her to steer him right...

“The things that boy tells you are certainly treasonous,” she said slowly.

“I know, Kaa-chan. I’m sor—”

“But they are true.”

Mamoru’s head snapped up, bloodshot eyes wide open. “Kaa-chan—!”

“You are not to repeat this,” Misaki said quickly, “to anyone. I should not need to explain that that kind of talk is not becoming of a Matsuda.”

“But...” Mamoru looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. His eyes glazed like the whole world had started reeling before them. “But if it’s all true, then...” Misaki watched the wheels turn in the boy’s head and felt a bit of panic bubble to life in her own chest. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Mamoru was fourteen—unstable and impressionable. And he was a  _Matsuda_. What had she been thinking telling him the truth?

“Why did you say that?” Mamoru demanded alongside the admonishing voice in Misaki’s head. “Why—why would you tell me?”

“Because I assumed you were man enough to handle it,” Misaki masked her anxiety under a harsh tone of voice. “You’re a Matsuda, aren’t you? Pull yourself together.”

“B-but... but...” Mamoru was so shaken he couldn’t get ahold of his words—let alone his tumultuous nyama. “You’re saying Hibiki Sensei really wasn’t telling the truth about our history. The Empire has been lying—”

“I just told you not to repeat any of that!”

Mamoru flinched as though struck. “I’m sorry.” He bowed his head. “I-I was out of line. I won’t forget again. I’m sorry.”

He clutched one bandaged hand in the other and hunched in on himself. Misaki could feel the pain radiating from him. Not just physical pain; he had taken worse beatings in combat training. His nyama was churning. All that terrifying power he had inherited from his father, writhing like a knotted serpent trying to free itself from its own coils, strangling and biting itself in confusion.

Her boy was in agony.

And Misaki experienced a stab of something she had not felt in a long time: protective instinct, an overwhelming desire to shelter, to comfort, to heal at any cost. She supposed this was what a good mother was supposed to feel towards her children every waking moment, but she had not felt it since Daybreak. Since she had something worth protecting.

Gently, she reached out and gripped Mamoru’s arm. “Sit with me,” she said.

“Wh-what?”

“If you’re going to take the short cut to school, you can spare a few siiranu to sit with your mother. Come. We’ll watch the sun rise.”

The front deck of the Matsuda compound had a clear view down the mountainside. When the day was bright and cloudless, Misaki could see all the way down to the twinkling ocean. On chilly mornings like this, the lower half of the mountain disappeared in a sea of fog that changed color with the growing light. Right now, the it was a deep blue, verging on lavender.

Misaki sat with her knees tucked beneath her, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of the demure housewife she had cultivated over the past fifteen years. Beside her, Mamoru crossed his legs in a rigid approximation of his father’s posture. But his heart was beating faster than Takeru’s ever did.

Misaki knew she had it in her to ease his pain, but she couldn’t do it with a housewife’s soothing touch and meaningless reassurances. This was different. For this, for once, she needed to be honest.

“You know, I...” She started with a small truth, to test how it would feel. “I never liked the cold.”

Mamoru turned to look at her with a question in his eyes.

“I’m a cold enough person—in my nyama and my personality—that I can get quite enough it all by myself. When it comes to the rest of the world, I like a little heat to offset all the ice in me. I know jijaka koronu are supposed to hate fire, but I envy you whenever you leave to apprentice at the forges. Warmth is so hard to come by in this village... That’s why I watch the sunrise out here whenever I can.”

Misaki stared wistfully over the mist.

“I like how I can feel the sun, burning on the horizon. I like the moment it lights up the fog, and then shines through it. It reminds me that there’s a world beyond this mountain, beyond Kaigen. No matter how cold the nights get here, the sun is rising somewhere. Somewhere, it’s making someone warm.”

“You’ve been out there,” Mamoru said after a moment. He spoke cautiously too, hesitantly venturing out after his mother into this new territory. “You never talk about it, but Aunt Setsuko said you went to theonite academy outside of Kaigen... all the way on the other side of the world.”

“It was a very long time ago,” Misaki smiled out at the mist. “I was the age you are now.”

For a long time they were quiet. More than once, Mamoru took a breath as though steeling himself to speak, then seemed to think better of it. His body was still, his eyes focused ahead, but the tension in his hands and the thud of his heart betrayed his anxiety. He was afraid, Misaki realized, afraid to ask what she knew of the outside world.

His fear wasn’t misplaced. There was a reason Takeru had forbidden any discussion of Misaki’s school years. A good deal of what she knew was not only against the Matsuda creed; it could be considered treason to the Empire. She couldn’t give Mamoru her knowledge from Daybreak any more than he could ask for it.

But she had to say something.

“Listen, son... when I was your age, I had to face truths that seemed to shatter the world. That’s what happens when you come into contact with people who aren’t quite like you. You learn over time that the world isn’t broken. It’s just... got more pieces to it than you thought. They all fit together, just maybe not the way you pictured when you were small.”

“But how?” Mamoru’s voice cracked. “I don’t understand. How do I fit them together? If nothing is what I thought... Kaa-chan, please... what am I supposed to think?”

“That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself,” Misaki said. “That’s part of becoming an adult.”

Mamoru shook his head. “I don’t understand. I—”

“A child doesn’t have to take responsibility for his decisions. A child can trust in his parents to tell him what to do. A man trusts himself. You’ll understand that when you’re older, but man who can’t take responsibility for his own decisions is really just an overgrown child.”

“But... aren’t we all children of the Empire?” Mamoru asked—and of course he would think that. That was what he had been told in every story and song since he learned to speak. “Don’t we  _have_  to trust our government?”

“I suppose so,” Misaki said, and before she could stop herself—“if you really want to be a child forever. Do you, son?” She looked sharply at Mamoru in the growing light. “Or do you want to be a man?”

“I want to be a man,” Mamoru said determinedly. “It’s just that—I don’t understand, Kaa-chan. I’m a koro, a Matsuda. When I grow up, I’m supposed to be a man of action with the power to shape history. H-how am I supposed to do that if I don’t even know what’s going on?”

A fair question, one that had no simple answer. “See that’s the hard part,” Misaki said, “coming to terms with what you don’t know, finding the answers, and acting on them without regret. Some people never learn; some people learn too late. Nami, I wish I...” Misaki pulled up short, shocked that she had let the thought even start to come out of her mouth. Because what had she meant to say?  _I_ _wish I had had the courage to go against my parents and the Empire._ _I wish I had made my own decisions when it mattered_. If she had then the boy looking anxiously into her eyes would not exist.

What kind of mother was she?

“What do you wish, Kaa-chan?” Mamoru asked with such earnest interest that Misaki could have curdled her own blood in shame.

“Nothing, son.” She touched his face. “I’ve borne a powerful Matsuda heir. What else could I wish for?”

“A smart one?” he suggested.

Misaki laughed. “You’re smart, Mamoru—or you’re starting to be. I’m sure you’ll grow into a fine man.”

“Will I?” He asked with genuine worry. And Misaki had no idea how to answer.

“I...” With her words failing, she borrowed some from her sword master. His wisdom may not have saved her, but maybe Mamoru could make more of it than she had. “A jijaka need not fear change. We are all water. We can fit any mold. No matter how we are broken and reshaped, we can always freeze ourselves strong again. It’s not going to happen all at once,” she added. “You have to wait for the season turn to see what shape the ice will take. But it will form up. Clear and strong. It always does.”

Mamoru nodded. “But I... I’m not to repeat anything you or Kwang-san have told me?”

“No,” Misaki said, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t listen. You can learn a great deal listening to people with different experiences from your own. A jaseli once told me, listening never made any man dumber, but it’s made a lot of people smarter.” She waved a hand. “That wasn’t a very good translation. I promise, it sounds more poetic in Yammaninke.”

“Like Matsuda Takeru the First...” Mamoru murmured, staring hard into the fog below.

“I suppose.” Misaki didn’t really follow his train of thought, but he seemed to have reached some kind of conclusion in that fourteen-year-old head of his.

“He learned from people who weren’t like him,” Mamoru said. “Even though he was a koro, he grew up with blacksmiths. He was willing to learn from them, and the foreign missionaries, even the son of his greatest enemy—and in the end, it made him stronger.”

For a moment, Misaki could only stare at her son. She had never thought of Matsuda history that way—in any way that related to her own experience. And here her bloodied, sleep-deprived fourteen-year-old boy had just connected two pieces of the world she never thought could fit together.

Maybe she still had some growing up to do herself.

“Thank you, Kaa-chan.” Mamoru turned to her with a wide smile. “I think I learned something.

Misaki only stared.

“What?”

She tilted her head. “You have dimples.”

“I got them from you.”

The sun was visible now, burning through the mist, and Misaki brushed Mamoru’s bangs back from his face.

“You know, Mamoru... you’ll be a man sometime soon. But just for today, let me be your mother, and tell you in all my motherly certainty ‘everything is alright. The world is whole. You are on the right path. Everything is going to be alright.’ And Mamoru...” She put a took his chin in her hand, turning his face toward hers. “You’re a good person. I trust you to grow up well.”

“Thank you, Kaa-chan.”

The slopes below had turned gold with sunlight. The sun set off the dewdrops like sparklers. Beside her, Mamoru made a concerted effort keep his eyes open. But as the sun warmed the mountainside, his head sank against her shoulder. His nyama, finally relaxed, started pulling him into the embrace of sleep.

“Someday, will you tell me about your foreign school?” he murmured. “About all the things you did when you were young?”

Misaki was not prepared for the ripple of warmth that shook her heart. She had never thought anyone here in Takayubi would ask about Daybreak. Hearing the words from her own child was more than she ever would have wished for.

“Someday, my son. Not today. Right now, you have your own future to look toward.”

“Mmm...” Mamoru breathed out, his eyes falling shut.

This was it, Misaki realized. This was the joy they had all promised, in a single, simple hope: Mamoru might grow up to be different from his father.

The sound of small bare feet interrupted her thoughts.

“Good morning, Naga-kun.” She recognized the springy steps of her third son before she turned to look at him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Kaa-chan...” the toddler slurred, rubbing his eyes. “Baby crying.”

“I’ll be right there,” Misaki said softly.

Mamoru was so deeply unconscious that he didn’t even stir as she laid him down on the wooden deck and went to comfort Izumo. She hoped that Mamoru would be able to sleep for a little while before heading to school. But when she emerged from the little ones’ room with Izumo in her arms and a sleepy Hiroshi following after her, she realized that this had been a foolish hope.

“Nii-san up!” Nagasa giggled. The three-year-old had clambered on top of his brother and was alternately tugging his hair and slapping his face. “Wake up!”

“Kaa-chan,” Mamoru grumbled, his eyes blinking open. “I’m being attacked by a demon.”

“No!” Nagasa laughed in delight. “No demon! It’s me!”

“Hmm.” Mamoru sat up, pitching his giggling brother into his lap. “That’s just what a demon  _would_  say.”

“No!” Still laughing like a maniac, Nagasa squirmed out from under Mamoru’s arm and made a break for the kitchen.

“Not so fast, demon!” Rolling onto his feet, Mamoru caught up to the toddler in two quick strides and scooped him up. “I bet you haven’t brushed your teeth yet—or I’m sorry—your  _fangs_.” He prodded his brother’s cheek and Nagasa snapped playfully at his finger. “Yeah, let’s brush those little demon fangs.”

As Mamoru slung Nagasa over shoulder and carried him toward the washroom, Misaki was overtaken by a memory more distant than Daybreak—giggling through wood-paneled halls with her own brothers. Takashi said that he and Takeru had never really played as children—or rather that Takeru had never wanted to play with him.

Fifteen years, Misaki had been lamenting being fated to raise Matsuda boys. All that time, she hadn’t considered that these boys might have something of her in them too.

She wondered,  _what else could I wish for?_

 


	7. STORY MOVED

Hello Dear Readers!

This story has moved to **mlwangbooks.com**. Chapters 8-10 have been posted there.

Thank you for reading and sorry for any inconvenience!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first part of _The Sword of Kaigen_. If enough readers here on Ao3 enjoy the story, I will continue to post installments here 2-3 weeks after I release them to my newsletter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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